The Great War Against Chaos
by Calarion
Summary: A tale of the Asur and their war against Malekith, the Witch King of Naggaroth. PG13 - Contains violence.
1. Chapter 1

Cold black waves lashed across the northern Great Ocean, and the rain poured down, an ocean in its own right, scouring the face of the sea. Huge gray rocks jutted harshly up into the sky, worn by the power of the tide. A cruel wind swept through, one that would chill to the bone and forced all to take cover. Into this dismal pit of tides sailed huge imposing ships, pitch black and evil, their spikes and flat sides conjuring an image of palpable darkness. But none were as dark as the thoughts of the one who led them on this day. At the prow of the foremost ship he stood, a gaunt and hideous specter clad in his imposing plate armor. He was Malekith, the Witch-King, and the most ancient evil known to his mortal enemies save the power that drove him. It had been long since his forces had set foot on Ulthuan, too long indeed for the one who fashioned himself the rightful Phoenix King. Not since the time of Morvael the Impetuous had his Dark Elves stirred, over a thousand years before. Since their defeat at the hands of Mentheus, Morvael's general, when the Great Lords Khaine and Slaanesh had given them the prophecy. Before a thousand years had passed, Ulthuan would be in the hands of the Dark Elves. Only the one with two faces could oppose them. A cryptic prophesy, as were all of them, but clear for the main part. Only this two- faced man could challenge the supremacy of the Druchii. Khaine's avatar had appeared to them earlier in the High Temple of Khaela- Mensha-Khaine in Naggaroth, a hulking vision of blood and pain. It had ordered them to go to sea this month, to challenge the proud fools of Ulthuan who believed their kingdom safe from a threat defeated a millennia ago. They would learn, mused the Witch-King. They would learn the truth and embrace the foul powers of Chaos, or they would die. That thought brought a smile to his face. Before the week was out, his Black Arks would land in what had been Nagarythe and begin reclaiming what was rightfully his.  
  
Cold elven steel rang out against its twin. Tyrion stepped back to regard his foe, golden hair swinging in the wind. His foe, a slightly-built elven female, nodded in respect. "Why, you do swing that sword better than most men! You might even be able to hit the broad side of a barn!" she laughed. Elenia, leader of the Everqueen's maiden guard. She professed to hate all men, but secretly Tyrion felt that might be more of an cover for her real feelings of amusement and, when warranted, grudging respect. Tyrion smiled in response, before swinging again. With a ringing of finely-forged steel, their blades met again, and broke from the parry to swing to the side. Dexterously, Tyrion jumped lightly over the sword, and swung twice, both blows parried by the skillful Elenia. He'd come a long way since leaving his teacher Hallar. Hallar was a vain and sarcastic elf, and also one of the finest swordsmen alive. Tyrion's father, Lord Arathion, had sent Tyrion and his brother Teclis to Saphery when their individual talents became apparent. Tyrion was a natural with the sword, and his brother Teclis had the potential to be the most powerful mage the Loremasters of Hoeth had seen - ever. Tyrion had originally intended to join the Swordmasters, a group of warrior- ascetics who protected the Loremasters of Hoeth, and for such purpose had been apprenticed to Hallar. The problem, of course, was that Tyrion had lacked the suitable temperament to become one. He was too adventurous, and the quiet life could never have been his calling. He'd seen this about a year ago, and suspected Hallar had known for much longer. Finally Hallar had set him free, pronouncing him 'an adequate warrior, if his longing for danger doesn't make him lose his life!' He'd wandered north, intending to go to Chrace or the Shadowlands, where dangerous creatures still roamed the lands. His stop at the peaceful forests of Avelorn, first intended to be a night, had turned into a week, then a month, and now stretched on indefinitely, the warrior entranced by the placid nature of the Everqueen's lands. He punctuated each thought with a parry or attack, though only half- heartedly. It came as no surprise then, when Elenia's sword smacked into his sword hand. With a grunt of pain his stunned hand released the sword, and it clattered down, punctuated by Elenia's blade at his throat. "And that just goes to prove that the single-mindedness of women will defeat the easily distracted men any day! I'd say you lose. Again" Elenia withdrew her sword, and Tyrion moved to pick his up. "Single- mindedness? As I recall, you were the one preaching about the superiority of women during the battle. Or am I mistaken?" She slapped him on the shoulder. "You know what I mean, dim-witted male!" she said cheerfully. "Do we go back, or do you feel like being humbled again?" "One defeat a day is quite enough, thank you very much." The two friends (though Elenia would loudly protest that if ask!) sheathed blades and moved back towards the large hall that served as the Everqueen's court. Neither saw the eyes that coldly watched them from the trees.  
  
Vuthil laughed silently. The wench indeed fought well, a skill that would serve her well, but Vuthil was a master Assassin of Naggaroth, even if relegated to a common scouting position. He had been ordered to find weaknesses in the defenses of Avelorn for his master the Witch-King, and that he would do. If he attacked them with some of his fellows the next day, they would both fall easily, and a quick attack on Avelorn would indeed become eminently feasible. First though, he would go to the Everqueen's halls. With a map of the place, how much easier might it prove for his master to overwhelm it the next day! He moved after the two with a stealth that came with years of practice. The map would come, and then the spiritual leader of Ulthuan would be dead. 


	2. Chapter 2

Under the blazing light of the sun lay the peaceful glades of Avelorn, a vast forest dedicated to the goddess Isha. How Isha would weep that day for her children, as their mortal enemies moved through the forest. Clad again in the comfortable garb of a Master Assassin, Vuthil moved with an unnatural grace through the woods. The ring of blades came from ahead - his quarry; the Elf-lord and the wench. His long blade made no sound as it came free from the scabbard on his back. He looked at it. Long, one sharpened edge, and gently curved, it was the best that Naggaroth's smiths could make. As it should be; the best equipment for the best warrior. Ah! His prey could be seen now. He grinned, a fearsome grin without the touch of humor, and waited for the moment to strike.  
  
Elenia's blade whistled in from the swing, and Tyrion brought his own sword up into a two-handed parry that served as the start of his own attack. He disengaged, and finished the blow, hardly surprised that Elenia had already prepared the perfect parry. He ducked the next blow, which sailed over his head, and then parried, forcing one, two, and then a third blow away from him. Not that any would ever have hurt him, of course. He prepared his own attack, a swipe before three carefully placed blows. Elenia gave ground before him, and Tyrion grinned. "I think I'm winning!" he called out. "That would be a first." Elenia dryly replied, and flung herself forward into a dive, rolling past the startled young man, and sprung to her feet behind him. Tyrion spun and the dance started again.  
  
Vuthil watched with mounting pleasure. The boy was good, very good indeed, but the wench's skill was unequalled amongst those he'd killed. A challenge at last for Naggaroth's greatest assassin. The time had come, he decided, and stepped out of the undergrowth, blade already swinging to kill the woman. He was not disappointed by her reactions, as she turned and flung herself under the blow. He saluted, a mocking look on his face, and attacked.  
  
Tyrion stood, shocked and enthralled. He'd never seen the Dark Elves before, indeed never fought a battle where life was the prize. But at the same time, he could not help but notice the perfection of the two combatants. Elenia, he quickly noticed, was far better than he'd ever given her credit for. But even to his eye, untrained as it was, he could tell that she was doomed. The dark elf was stronger, faster, and more skilled than the captain of the Handmaidens, and the battle could only end one way. He charged, refusing to abandon his friend, but with a grace he'd never equal, the Assassin spun, blade still flickering a torrent of blows on Elenia, and then struck. Tyrion stared in amazement as the curved sword sunk into his side, and then almost fainted with pain as the sword was wrenched out. Weak from the agony, he sunk to the ground, turning the soft grass beneath him an ugly red. Elenia's face contorted with fury. Instantly her blows redoubled in accuracy, and the two combatants rung sword on sword in a continuous ringing sound.  
  
Vuthil laughed inwardly. Yes, the woman was good, very good indeed. He'd never been challenged like this in his life. Alas that he never would be again! Tiring of the game, he stopped playing with her. His first blows drove the woman back, pressing her against a tree. He could smell her anger and fear. It was a most sweet scent. But never mind. He swung again, and with a light 'thump' the woman's hand hit the ground, still clutching the sword. She looked up, holding staunchly in a scream of agony, and shouted out "Tyrion! RUN!" That was all she had time for, as the great curved sword swung in a long arc. Elenia's headless body collapsed on the ground, blood streaming from the neck.  
  
Tyrion was in shock. That easily, his beloved friend had been slaughtered; the tranquil peace of his pool broken into ripples. The assassin turned slowly. "Tyrion?" he snarled. "Shall you be next, or will you warn the slut who rules this worthless land?" Tyrion's blood burned angrily at the insult to the Everqueen. "Hold your foul mouthings, lackey, and address not your betters until addressed yourself!" he spat furiously. The dark elf laughed. "You choose to die!" Tyrion gaped at the spectre of approaching death, Elenia's blood staining the assassin's sword and cloak. Then he turned and ran, the elf's mocking laugh pursuing him.  
  
Chaos. It was the only word that Alarielle's stunned mind to call to mind to describe this. Elenia and the young elf-lord - Tyrion? - had gone out for their typical sparring match. Nothing strange there, nothing out of the ordinary. But then the sounds of battle had rung outside, screams of deathly pain and of blood-stained victory. One of her handmaidens, Hestaire, had burst in to the grand hall, blood running down an open wound on her forehead. "Highness!" she gasped. "Dark elves! They've..." That was as far as she got, as one of the dark elven warriors burst into the hall, sword smeared with the blood of Alarielle's handmaidens and friends. Battle began, the Everqueen growing more and more sickened by the carnage. A figure appeared in the back door, and the young Everqueen turned, holding up the ceremonial Staff of Avelorn for all the meager defense it could offer. It was Tyrion. The young Elf-lord moved up to the throne, and Alarielle could make out the pain in his eyes, the tears that threaded their way down his handsome face. "Tyrion..." she spoke softly, reaching a hand out to touch one of the tears. The Elf-lord started. "Elenia." He rasped, and Alarielle understood, felt pain welling up inside her at the death of her dearest friend. "We've no time for that now." said Tyrion abruptly. "If we stay much longer, we'll all be killed. They'll burn the Great Hall down with us in it. We've got to leave - now." Alarielle nodded confused. What should she do? Leave her handmaidens? Or escape? Why did such a problem have to come when she was so young?! She was only a mere hundred and fifty years of age! Tyrion decided for her. He grasped her hand, and the two fled the battle.  
  
They were not allowed to go unhindered. Vuthil laughed. The foolish young fop had brought the Everqueen to him. Now he could kill them both, and the spiritual heart of Ulthuan would be no more, never to hinder them again.  
  
Tyrion's blade spun in his hands. The mad Witch elf hardly noticed, accepting the stinging hits to be able to launch her devastating counter- attack. The Witch elves appeared as young, beautiful elven women, but they had sold their souls to Khaine, the daemon Lord of Murder, for eternal youth and deadly skill in battle. Some would say they had sold their sanity as well. Those some were right. The witch elves were psychotic killing machines, and woe betide to any who challenged them, as Tyrion was discovering. He sword twirled quickly, and he gave a silent thanks to Hallar and Elenia for training him so well. His sword caught a left, left, and then twisted to the right. Alarielle watched, amazed at this battle between her protector and the frenzied foe. Tyrion struck, flinging one of the cruelly-barbed swords to the side, then caught his blade in two hands and impaled the witch elf. He was at the Everqueen's side in a heartbeat. "Come on," he whispered, and she needed no further encouraging. Then the familiar black cloaked form dropped gently from the trees to the ground before him. "Tyrion - you have brought the Everqueen. How good of you." The Everqueen gasped in shock. With a roar of fury, Tyrion charged, sword scything through the air. Vuthil was waiting for him, and their blades met in a shower of sparks. Using the strength born of pure rage, Tyrion forced Vuthil back, making the dark elf stagger. Tyrion continued, an overhand blow that would have split Vuthil from head to groin if the nimble assassin had not darted to one side, before fleeing into the forest. Grimly, Tyrion stalked after Vuthil, sword held straight before him. He'd made a mistake. Only the instincts of a skilled warrior had alerted him to utterly silent attack of the assassin as Vuthil attacked from hidden shadows. Tyrion flung himself down, the sword flying over his head by a small space. Then Tyrion was on the defensive, twisting his weaving sword in a deadly dance for either him or Vuthil. And he knew the truth. He was good, but he couldn't fight the Assassin for long. Vuthil's sword spun again, aiming for his vulnerable fingers, and Tyrion fell back. Vuthil pressed the advantage, slamming the sword hilt into Tyrion's head. Dazed, Tyrion could not stop the next blow that knocked the blade from his hands. "You are indeed skilled, fop!" sneered Vuthil, and then he backhanded Tyrion across the face. Tyrion's mouth stung with the pain, but he stayed quiet. Then Vuthil drew back his sword, Elenia's blood still gleaming on it. He swung, and Tyrion prepared for oblivion. There came a loud crash. A huge tree fell, moving somehow into the path of the swinging sword. Vuthil's blade sunk deep in to the tree, and the assassin cursed in fury as his blade firmly lodged itself in the firm trunk of the tree. Not waiting to see the cause of the miracle, Tyrion drew his belt knife and moved for Vuthil. The assassin spat at him, the offensive matter landing on his pale cheek. Firmly he wiped it off and swung the knife. Vuthil cried out in pain as Tyrion's dagger raked down his long face, leaving a large scar. Then the assassin turned, abandoning the struggle with the stuck sword, and was gone. Tyrion moved after him. "Do not." It was the melodious voice of Alarielle. She looked haggard - the magic used to topple the tree had taken a lot out of her. She firmly clutched the Staff of Avelorn now. "We must flee. If you pursue him, I can't save you again. Leave him." Already the last sounds of battle were drawing closer. "But he killed Elenia!" Tyrion protested, though already wiping his bloody knife on the grass, before retrieving his sword. They moved on, through the bushes of the forest, until the forest opened up into a broad glade. Several Witch elves stood, twin blades dripping with the blood of the slain. Elenia's headless body was crumpled in one corner of the glade, and more of the maiden guard lay around her. Tyrion's blade came to the fore, and he dove into the melee, sword twirling. Almost immediately the skilled young elf-lord struck down a foe, and then there were two, and his one sword flailed desperately to hold off the four swords of the dark elves. Sweat ran down his forehead, and he retreated slowly, but losing all the same. Then suddenly he changed direction, coming towards them. They were startled, and delayed for a split second - but that was all Tyrion needed. His sword flew, and one of the witch elves fell, head cleanly severed from the body. Then Tyrion screamed, a cry of utter agony as the other elf sunk her sword deep into Tyrion's side. The grievously wounded elf-lord struck again, and the frenzied warrior fell, Tyrion's sword in her head. Tyrion sagged as blood poured out of the wound, and he began to feel faint. It was said that the witch elves poisoned their swords, and that none could survive such a blow. Alarielle was at his side then, her graceful hand soaked in the blood from his side. "Tyrion," she whispered, but he could hardly hear her. She took his cloak, and tore a long strip off it, binding his wound. "Lean on me," she said, and together they staggered into the forest.  
  
By the tremulous light of a ring of candles the old mage watched his young pupil, eyes narrowed in concentration, as the small rock rose between them. High, and higher, and pride as well as effort showed on his protégé's face as the rock rose. The spell wavered and fluttered. In the dim light of candles, the Loremaster Belannaer bent down to his apprentice. "Concentrate! This is an easy spell - you've done it before." He paused, though, seeing the troubled look on Teclis' face. "That's not it, is it? Something is bothering you. What is it, Teclis?" The young mage, powerful beyond his years, said, "Tyrion!" "Your brother?" Teclis nodded. "Very well. I know about your bond with him. I'll get the scrying pool". Teclis was the twin brother of Tyrion, though it could not be told by looking at them. Tyrion's handsome, lordly manner had passed his brother. Teclis was gaunt and weak, but his aptitude for magic was incredible. Belannaer was an old mage, one of the most powerful alive, but he knew with time his pupil would easily outstrip his considerable skills. It balanced out his crippled body and bitter manner. There were only two things that gave Teclis joy - his magic and his brother. Despite the great gulf between the two mentally and physically, they both were very loyal to the other. Perhaps that was due to the fact that after one day in their childhood, when Teclis had nearly drowned and Tyrion risked his life to save his brother, Teclis had unwittingly cast a spell that bound the two together. Tyrion could draw on Teclis' great willpower, and the young wizard his brother's strength. It also linked them in feelings. All this Belannaer had discovered when he took Teclis to Saphery and the White Tower, how the youth who had never studied magic had intuitively already weaved it to his purpose that once, and then the older mage glimpsed his student's power. The old Loremaster broke his musing, and took the silvery bowl from the high shelf where he'd last put it. Unnaturally, the waters in it stayed deathly flat, though it was moving to a small pedestal between their seats. "Do you want to, or shall I?" Belannaer remarked calmly. "I will." The black-haired elf mumbled under his breath, before plunging the tips of his fingers into the bowl. The unnatural water did not move. Still chanting softly, Teclis spun his fingers, before moving them. The waters finally moved, before settling in a different form, a picture. In the bowl, the aged Loremaster saw a tall, handsome elf, worlds apart in appearance to his twin. "So this is young Tyrion," murmured Belannaer. Teclis did not reply to the comment. "Who is the other one, though?" Belannaer frowned. "Other one?" He moved over to the bowl, and peered into it. After a heartbeat he straightened. "That, my young friend, is the new Everqueen, Alarielle. What they're doing, running through the forest like that." He never finished his statement, though, as the waters of the bowl suddenly moved again, erupting upwards between them. The water landed again, mostly in the bowl, though it also doused the two mages. What was in the bowl rippled like normal water. "Unusual," said Belannaer. "The capacity of the scrying waters seems to have been exhausted. I can only think of one explanation." "He's not dead," interjected Teclis. "I still sense him." Belannaer stood up. "Well, something is going on." "He's in pain. Great pain. And sorrow." Belannaer just stood there, thinking. "I have a feeling," he said finally, "that something very strange is going on. Come with me." "Where are we going?" his pupil asked. "To see the Loremasters." 


	3. Chapter 3

The Chamber of the Loremasters was the most fabulous room inside the White Tower. It was one that only the full Loremasters and their guests were allowed to enter, and so Teclis had never been in here before. He eyed his surrounding with a great deal of curiosity, therefore. The Chamber could be said by most observers to most closely resemble the inside of a white marble egg. The room stretched up for some three or foul levels, sloping inward until is reached a rounded top. Seven great pillars of laen rose in the middle. Six were white, and of the greatest architectural style the elves could dream of, erected both by skill and by the added aid of magic. The middle column was directly in the centre of the room, and the centre of the White Tower in this case. It was also laen, but this time a thicker, translucent shaft of rose tinted stone. This pillar was referred to as the Heart of the Tower, and it glowed peacefully. The most incredible thing about was not its beauty, or the powers of peace and wisdom it granted to those within the room, but the fact that while the other pillars had been brought here from their quarries, this one was a natural vein of the rock, around which the tower had been built. The bottom of the room sloped downwards, and it was here that the seats were set, these of oak from the oldest trees in Chrace, and also somehow still alive now. These seats were occupied by a selection of elves. Had the elven physique shown age, these men would have been revealed as ancient by any race's standards. In the centre sat one, though, who was easily the oldest elf alive still. The High Loremaster's lifespan had been greatly augmented by his powerful command of magic, but even so Cyeos approached the end of his considerable life. The mind inside was as keen as ever. "We are all here, Belannaer. What is of such urgency that it could not wait until our next Council, next moon?" The old, gentle voice carried a hint of light reproach. Belannaer bowed. "Master." Then he straightened and sat in the remaining chair. Teclis joined him, standing by his side. "And why is your apprentice here, Belannaer? Granted, he may have more power than most full mages, but he is not a Loremaster. I believe it is time for explanations." "As you wish, master," said Belannaer. "This boy has given me reason to suspect there is something strange happening in Avelorn, involving his brother, and also the Everqueen Alarielle. Some sort of danger." "Ridiculous!" scoffed another Loremaster. "The Everqueen is the living representative of Isha! Should there be some danger, she would deal with it in a heartbeat." "Alarielle is yet young. She has only been Everqueen for a scant twelve years. She may not have come to terms with the powers yet," replied Belannaer easily. "I fear you have less knowledge of events than you think since your seclusion!" retorted the other. "Enough, Herulach!" snapped the High Loremaster, and the other Loremaster quieted. "I do not doubt your word, Belannaer, but we need some proof. How did you catch word of this?" "You know, master, of my apprentice's link with his brother?" "I do. As I recall, it was the reason why he was directly apprenticed to a senior Loremaster when he arrived here, instead of a lesser mage as per custom!" Belannaer ignored the implicit insult in the High Loremaster's words, and continued. "During the lesson, my apprentice sensed something wrong with his brother through the bond they share. When we investigated this, my scrying revealed the young warrior running through the forest, with the Everqueen." "So the Everqueen has taken him as her lover. What of it?" interjected another Loremaster. "I do not think that she has. There was blood on him, and on his sword. Obviously some sort of violence. Then my scrying bowl was destroyed by some strange magical emanation." Cyeos' eyes blazed as he bent closer. "So in other words, you witnessed nothing, and have no real proof of anything except a very ambiguous viewing." "Teclis, tell the Loremasters how your brother felt." Teclis, who had been drifting off during all this, started. "He felt in pain. Agony. Not just physical, mental too. And despair. Hatred. Fear." Cyeos said, "It is, at least, easy to determine the answer. Hopefully another scrying will not short out, as yours did, Belannaer." The High Loremaster faced the column of rose laen, and gestured. The column's light expanded, engulfing the watchers. Then it changed, and they were somewhere else. Avelorn. Black, oily smoke rose from the ruins of a great wooden hall in the middle of the otherwise-peaceful forests. Flames licked eagerly. So someone has attacked the Everqueen, High Loremaster Cyeos' voice came from a long way away. But who? The angle changed, and the watchers were inside the ruins. The most beautiful building in Ulthuan was gone. Ruined. Destroyed. Two elves stood by the pyre, talking. Their words could not be heard, but the black armor over purple and blue cloth told the watchers their identities. Dark Elves. The Dark Elves have attacked Avelorn. And now for the location of the Everqueen, High Loremaster Cyeos 'said'. Immediately they were all back in the Chamber of the Loremasters. "The scrying ended prematurely when I attempted to find Alarielle. I can only see one conclusion." Herulach ended the High Loremaster's words. "The Everqueen is dead." "And, presumably, then, so is your apprentice's brother, Belannaer." Teclis felt anger stir inside him. "Talk to me, not over my head! I am here!" The High Loremaster shook his head. "You must learn to hold your tongue, young one. Though it can be understood in wake of your twin's death." "Twin's death - ha!" spat Teclis. "My brother is alive!" The High Loremaster's face hardened. "You must not block yourself away from the truth. Accept it, no matter how hard." "The truth is that he is alive! I still sense him!" Herulach stared at him. "Do not be a fool. If he were alive, we would have seen him. He must have died protecting the Everqueen." "You did not scry for him. How do you know?!" "We do not need to." Another Loremaster this time, said in a voice that sounded like one used for a child - or a dangerous animal. Calming, soothing. Teclis pushed the tone out of his mind. "It is obvious what happened." Cyeos stood again. "The boy is right. We shall scry for him, so as to prove this whole debate. Then I think you should consider your future, boy - for more outbursts will bar the Tower to you." The crystal flared again - and died. The pink glow that surrounded it died out totally, until it was only a normal laen column. Several Loremasters gasped, and more began chanting, spells of binding and warding to keep any enchantments in the pillar where they were. The others began talking loudly. Cyeos, however, looked puzzled. "So your brother is dead. That does not explain why the pillar died out." Belannaer spoke again. "Master, my scrying of the boy had the same effect." Teclis spoke again. "So your magics have failed you, and yet you cling to the luxury of believing he and the Everqueen are dead!" Cyeos turned and put his face close to Teclis'. Then he hissed, "One more outburst from you, and I will have you thrown out of the Tower." Teclis replied with a voice that was equally quiet and terrible in every way. "If you continue to be blind, you will destroy Ulthuan. I have no desire to be led by a body that believes that because their magic has failed them, then their original thoughts must be right, a body who refuses to accept the evidence when it is in their face. Have you even thought about the fact that there are Dark Elves as far into Ulthuan as Avelorn without any knowledge of any Dark Elf aggressive? Or the fact that they have surgically struck a blow that is not militarily sound but from the viewpoint of a major campaign is crippling for us in terms of overall morale! Your leadership will destroy the Tower! As of this point, I am no longer a member of this order!" Then the young mage turned and strode out of the Chamber of the Loremasters.  
  
The Druchii turned and fell silent as the form entered the glade. Green leaves contrasted with pitch black plate. The Witch King had come to the ruins of Avelorn. Behind the evil one walked two other men, also greatly feared, but not to the extent of their dread master. The Witch King stared at the smoking ruins and smiled. The cruel grin grew when he saw the dead bodies that had been driven to the walls. Many maiden guards and other warriors. It was a good first blow. Then he noticed something, and turned around. "Where is the Everqueen?" The voice of the Witch King was strained, rasping, from the ordeal he had suffered in the flames of Asuryan so many years ago. The voice was deathly quiet - and yet all there heard it clearly, and were afraid. One of the men with him flung back his hood. It was the assassin Vuthil. He was clad in comfortable black stained leathers again, and his eyes burned with hatred. And tracing its way from cheekbone to chin, a livid red scar, a new marking. The Witch King smirked. "Dread Master, a high elf warrior by the name of Tyrion saved her. I tried to stop him, and he gave me this." He pointed to the scar. "How . interesting. This warrior bested you?" "The warrior is a effete fool! He is just a boy, still sickened by battle, and a fop at it. He could be one of the greatest swordsmen of all time, though - if he learns to concentrate. No, I was about to kill him when the bitch caught me by surprise. Made my sword lodge in a tree trunk. Then he gave my his mark." "Hmmm," The Witch King mused. "Who led this raid?" "Lord Dreuthil the Paingiver." "Dreuthil. Bring him to me." "Yes, Dread One," said the assassin immediately, and went off at a run. The Witch-King ignored him and turned to the other man. "Mortharor. What do you make of this raid?" Mortharor, the other Dark Elf, replied. His voice was echoing inside his hood. "It seems that Dreuthil's incompetence has cost us the Everqueen." "That was my thought, also." Dreuthil arrived then, a plain looking Druchii in plate armor. "Dread One, I had." he begun. "Quiet!" snarled the Witch King. "Your battle plan let the Everqueen escape." Dreuthil began sweating. The Witch King gestured to Dreuthil. "Incompetence is not a trait I desire in my leaders. Therefore your usefulness to me is over." He turned to look at Mortharor. "Kill him," the Witch King finished blandly. Mortharor flung off his cloak. Underneath he wore beautiful plate armor, wonderfully crafted to protect the entire body, and adorned with images of skulls and daemons. The head was bare, and Mortharor's face - seemingly forged of harsh, conflicting lines and angles - was visible. The Dark Elf gestured, and two warriors ran forward. One placed a great horned helmet on Mortharor's head, its faceplate a skull. In fact, the skull of Graidel, who had been the Supreme General before his death at Mortharor's hands, and his replacement by his killer. Graidel had also been Mortharor's father. The other Dark Elf handed Mortharor his weapon of choice, a strange polearm. It appeared to be some form of light halberd, except with a blade at either end of the shaft. He moved towards Dreuthil, holding the staff- weapon negligently. Dreuthil reached at his belt for his sword, drew it out, and lunged at Mortharor. But the Dark Elf was no longer standing where he had been, the plate mail not encumbering him at all as he dodged. Then he struck out with the polearm as if it were a spear, tearing easily through the chain sleeve and ripping open the muscles on Dreuthil's left arm. Blood spurted. Dreuthil screamed shrilly, and turned to face his foe, holding his longsword in one hand, other arm dangling loosely at his side. Mortharor struck again, but this time Dreuthil blocked. A clash of steel, and the same happened again, with this time Dreuthil's shoulder taking the blow. From the side of the battle, the Witch King growled, "I grow tired of this. Stop playing with him and end this." "As you wish, Dread One," replied Mortharor. The Dark Elf immediately began spinning the polearm so that a bladed end crashed down on Dreuthil every second or so. The other tried vainly to parry, but to no avail, as a slight change of Mortharor's wrists would completely shift the angle of attack. Then suddenly Mortharor stepped back, and changed the direction of the spin. Dreuthil could only watch as the end nearest him changed direction, drew back, and then thrust directly forward. The Witch King clapped slowly as the halberd blade drove like a spear directly through Dreuthil's face and into his brain, killing him instantly. The whole fight had taken less than a minute. "Very good, my friend." "Thank you, Dread One." "Now, you must lead the war. You are, after all, my finest general. I leave this in your hands, but know that if you fail, his death will be enviable." "Yes, Dread One." The Witch King gestured to Vuthil. "Master Assassin, you must succeed where Dreuthil failed. I want the body of the Everqueen for my standard, to show those idiots there is no hope. Bring her to me." "Yes, Dread One. This I will enjoy." The Witch King handed Vuthil a small black glass orb. "When you find her, break this, and I will be able to communicate with you." "Dread One, Ulthuan's hopes end here." "Good. See that it is so," rasped the Witch King, and then he left the ruins of the Everqueen's court, totally ignoring the body he left behind him, as if it were not there. 


	4. Chapter 4

When Tyrion and Alarielle stopped running, the fires at the Evercourt had finally died out. Tyrion was the first to stop, gasping in pain. The wound in his side hurt him more than he would care to admit, but in the urgency of escape, the pain had been shunted aside for a later hour. Now, to be precise. The elf-lord gasped and hobbled two steps to a nearby rock, upon which he sat. Then he inspected his wounds. He was, more or less, covered in blood all over (though fortunately, not all his!) The largest concentration of the stuff was where the witch elf had stabbed him. He barely noticed the Everqueen stagger over to collapse by him, he was so intent upon the wound.  
  
Slowly he removed the cloth tied around his waist that staunched the flow of blood. Then after that had been removed he pulled his shirt off. The sight below was not pretty. The angle of the blow was such that it had missed his internal organs, fortunately, but it was messy, and there was a strange smell about it that he could not place. He shuddered when he thought of the venom dark elves were said to employ, and hoped for the best. "Let me see that," Alarielle said softly. "It isn't nice," he warned, but turned to her anyway. Alarielle blanched. "I've never seen so much blood before," she said in a revolted tone. "It's a peaceful life in Avelorn. No wars. Had this not happened, you never would have, I'm sure." "Hold still," Alarielle ordered. "I have some magic available to me from Isha. I may be able to heal it." "Please do," said Tyrion sincerely. "I fear that it is poisoned." Alarielle lay one light hand on the wound. Tyrion flinched, but stood still. Then the Everqueen began to speak words of arcane power, words of peace and tranquility, words of healing. Her hand glowed, as did Tyrion's side, a glow that grew incandescent and painful to gaze upon. Tyrion squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the light to fade. The blood had lessened, and the torn skin had knitted together, but there was still a large bleeding patch. Alarielle frowned. "That should be gone now." "It's better. That's blessing enough." She still looked dissatisfied, but left it there. "Now, is there anything I can clean this with?" she said, indicating her bloodied palm. "There's a stream just back there a bit." She grumbled and went to wash off. Tyrion re-bound his wounds and put his shirt on again, his skin cringing at the feel of the dirtied cloth. "It's a pity," he remarked wryly to no one in particular, "that I didn't remember to bring a change of clothes along with me!" After he had finished, he went of to find the Everqueen. She was just a small way away, through a few trees, kneeling in front of the stream. Her staff lay by her, and her shoulders shook. Tears, Tyrion realized. He dropped down beside her. "What's wrong?" he asked in his most sympathetic voice. Alarielle turned to him. Tears spoiled her lovely face. "It's all gone, isn't it? All my friends dead. All my people slaughtered. Why?!" Slowly, wondering if this was the right thing to do, Tyrion put an arm around the distraught Everqueen. Apparently it was, because she responded, hurling both arms around the elf-lord and burying her head in his shoulder. Tyrion patted her back. "You have to be strong. We'll go to Saphery, to the White Tower. They'll be able to help us." The amount of tears did not cease, and Tyrion continued to hold her gently until the tears finally ended, and Tyrion realized she was asleep.  
  
"You could have been a trifle more diplomatic, you know," said Belannaer in a tone that indicated his amusement. "The High Loremaster had all the proof he needed laid out neatly in front of him, and he didn't do anything!" fumed Teclis. "And now you leave the tower - for what purpose? Where do you intend to go now? You cannot divine your brother's location from the bond, you know." Teclis looked up from the small bag he was stuffing with clothes and provisions. "I'll find him." Pressing on, Belannaer noted, "With the Dark Elves attacking, the route to him will be fraught with all manner of danger. Have you forgotten your weakness? What would you do if faced with a war party of them?" Teclis snapped, "Are you on my side or not? All I hear are efforts to dissuade me from my chosen path!" The older mage was not phased by the younger one's temper. "I am just pointing out the obstacles on your chosen path. You know I support you wholeheartedly." Teclis had finished packing now, and he went and embraced his master briefly. "I know. Then he turned for the door. "Oh," said Belannaer off-handedly, "I have some things for you." Teclis turned as his master pulled out from under his robes a plain brown scrip, and removed from it, firstly, several vials. "Some more doses of that potion of yours." Due to his weakness, Teclis required a special herbal potion to maintain his strength, which the Loremasters had had prepared for him. "It should be enough to last you for a while." The second item came out, a plain steel sword, simply crafted and bland of ornamentation, wrapped in soft pig leather cloths. "My first sword. It could be useful as a form of protection. Teclis eyed it dubiously, so Belannaer added, "It is more powerful than it looks. There are runes of piercing, and also of lightning, engraved upon the blade." "And the final item," Belannaer said as he hefted the still heavy bag, "took forever to allow the High Loremaster to allow to lend to me. If he found out that I gave it to you, who knows what could happen to me! But a little foretelling prompted me to do this as the wisest path, so I doubt I shall face any repercussions. And you will find it of immense use." With that he emptied the bag out over Teclis' bed. Something large and heavy fell out, and the astounded Teclis gaped at the War Crown of Saphery. The War Crown was one of Ulthuan's greatest artifacts. It enhanced the power of any magic user wearing it, greatly. A master of sorcery such as Belannaer - or Teclis himself, for that matter, for all that his powers were still untried - would be an unstoppable force while the War Crown was seated on their head. "These. they are princely gifts, Master," croaked Teclis hoarsely. "You can call me Belannaer, now, Teclis," said his mentor. "And before you say it, there is no way you can repay me, and no need to, anyway. Repayment is for lesser people. Just prove yourself worthy of them." Belannaer piled the items back into the bag, and handed it to Teclis. "Good hunting." "Fare well," Teclis replied. Then he turned and swept out of the door. 


	5. Chapter 5

The old elf stood uncomfortably in the rain. He was all too aware of how when he moved, his back would creak painfully, and that the stiffness in his legs was due to the encroachment of the years - and there had been many of them. He'd been living back in the days of Morvael, a thousand years ago. The days he faced now where the end of a long, long life. It had been a good life, too. He'd known good friends, had a fine wife (how he still lamented her death, just a mere hundred years ago!), a good son, the respect of his peers. Yes, it was a good life. But why, he asked himself, did he have to leave this life at this stage? When the skillful tactics he had accumulated over his long years were most needed? "When do you believe they will arrive, Father?" Another elf slogged through the downpour towards him, grimacing. His son, Calarion. Just a short time they'd been relaxing in the ancient palace that was the home of the descendants of Tathel Sapherior, founder of Saphery. Then by the word of High Loremaster Cyeos (The real ruler of Saphery) the two of them, with their elite bodyguard, had been whisked up to the north of the kingdom, where Cyeos had heard of Dark Elven raiders. The report worried Tarthalion, dark elves this far inland. Surely the White Lions in the forested foothills of Chrace would have halted any raiding party long ago! So now Tarthalion, Calarion, and Tarran Angedhel (Captain of their bodyguard of Elven knights) were wandering around in the rain, waiting to see if there were dark elves here, and to assess the threat. Why the High Loremaster couldn't just scry out the answer was beyond him. When he'd posed that question it had been met with icy silence that told him not to pursue the matter any further. "When do you think the raiders will appear?" Calarion repeated behind him. Tarthalion turned. "Patience, son!" Patience was not one of Calarion's favorite words. Tarran had been drilling it into him in every lesson the younger elf learnt. While Calarion was a skilled commander and strategist, and a deadly combatant, he was also hot-blooded and recklessly impatient. They were traits the older elf wished fervently could be lost before Calarion's first command in a battle. Calarion resumed his pacing back and forth. Absently, Tarthalion stroked the hilt of the ancestral sword of the Sapherior line, feeling the ornate gold-work under his gloved hand. "We'll know the truth of the rumors before nightfall," Tarthalion said confidently. Calarion did not reply, but his father knew his thought. Nightfall was still about five hours away. So Tarthalion stood, waiting, looking intently into the gray. Calarion continued his pacing for a while, then went off to where the siltholrim knights had set up camp. He returned, shortly, with a leg of lamb, which he offered to his father. Tarthalion took it, and began absently chewing on it. Calarion left him to get more food for himself. There was a sound from up ahead. Very faint, unrecognizable, but a sound nevertheless. He dropped down and carefully slid his sword out from his side, fumbled the small shield until it sat comfortably on his forearm. Nearby, Calarion noticed and joined him. Tarthalion noticed wryly that his son got ready a lot quicker and smoother than he had - a sign of advancing age, doubtlessly. The two waited, breath held. Back at the small camp, the light chatter stopped; the experienced Angedhel had noticed the sign too. But there was no more sound save the continual patter of rain. Tarthalion waited longer, then began to stand. It was then that he saw something. Out of the mists it hurtled, and Calarion's sword swung in a clean arc, taking it in the flank. It growled in pain, and collapsed. It was a small mountain lion. Tarthalion relaxed. "So that's what I heard!" Calarion grinned back at him, just as affected by the release of tension. The young elf began wiping his sword on moist grass, then stopped. "Why is it," he queried, "that this beast attacked our camp?" Tarthalion knew the answer, and pulled his shield up. Just in time, as a hail of black feathered shafts came from the rain. Most missed, a few struck off his shield. From before him came a screaming press of mailed warriors, swinging broadsword and battleaxe. Practically frothing at the mouth at the sight of their despised kin, the dark elves charged the two warriors. Then with a cry, Tarran Angedhel came running from the camp with his ten warriors. They joined the fray, turning it into a huge, confused tangle of swords and bodies. Men cried as their blood flowed, and swords drew sparks as they struck shield, or armour, or other weapons. Back to back, Tarthalion and Calarion stood in the middle of the press. The two master warriors fended off blows from all angles, and both their blades were wet with druchii blood. And both knew the odds were against them. Tarthalion dropped to one knee, letting a swung axe go over his head. His response, a thrust, and the dark elf fell back, blood pouring from the fatal wound in his side. Another replaced him, and Tarthalion was tired. The old elf raised his shield, taking the hit, which did not even scrape the magnificent golden filigree on the ancient metal. His struck out, and the blade of his sword rang against the shaft of his foe's axe. The weapon struck out again, but this time the agile dark elf was not standing there. Instead his sword swung in a wide, violent arc that Tarthalion caught on the shield. The next blow, with the axe, came in, and Tarthalion realized with dread that there was no way he could stop it. The head of the great axe struck the golden chainmail on his side. The mail flexed, and Tarthalion yelled in pain, but it did not break - small chance that it could break through the cunningly forged metal. Tarthalion struck back, not with the sword but the shield. The raider, not expecting this, fell back dazed, and offered no resistance as Tarthalion ran him through. Looking up, he saw that that was the last one of them. All twenty-odd attackers lay dead, their corpses twisted in the churned-up ground, but his side had not escaped without hurt. Tarran Angedhel bore a wicked-looking gash along his cheek, messy and painful. Three more of the siltholrim were dead, and another two badly wounded. Tarthalion could see one whose mangled left arm looked as if he would never use it again. But they had won, and they knew the truth now. "Back to the White Tower!" ordered Tarthalion. There he would begin the muster for war.  
  
The dark elf rose from where he had been kneeling and beckoned the rest of his band over. One by one, the three other men jogged lightly to their compatriot. "Look," said the first of the druchii. "Footprints. And this rock has dried blood on it." Vuthil crouched also, looking at the churned mud by the side of the stream.  
  
Another of the dark elves spoke up. "Many of the maiden guard fled when they thought the Everqueen was killed. It could be any of them." Vuthil rose to his full height. "It could be - but it is not." "How do you know?" questioned the assassin. Vuthil sneered at him. "I was training when you were crying for your mother's milk, boy. I know." The insulted assassin put his hand to sword, and would have attacked then and there, save that Vuthil's scimitar was already lightly balanced at his throat. Vuthil pressed, just enough to split the skin, and watched as a single drop of blood welled its way to the surface. "You would challenge me, then, Grathik?' The dark elf called Grathik swallowed nervously. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, as he protested, "No! Never!" Vuthil's sword did not move, and so Grathik continued. "I know my superiors," the assassin protested. Vuthil moved his sword away lazily. "You know those who could skin you in a heartbeat, without a second's remorse, you mean." "Y..Yes." Vuthil turned away. "Any other time I would kill you, but this is too important to waste time on slime like you, Grathik." The Master Assassin's hand snapped out, and caught Grathik in the throat. Wheezing, the other assassin was pitched to the muddy forest floor. Vuthil ignored him and addressed the two other assassins. "Judging by those tracks, we'll have the Everqueen in our hands by the end of the day. Then the fun will truly begin!" He sprung away, followed by the other two assassins. Grathik pulled himself up from the ground and followed them. His eyes glared daggers into Vuthil's back. 


	6. Chapter 6

The war began, historians would say later, with the lightning raid upon Avelorn. Certainly it marked the beginning of a new aggressive, and was the first real conflict between the two sides. And it marked the beginning of the downfall of the High Elven armies, for without the presence of the Everqueen, and the rumors of her death - spread, no doubt, by dark elven agents - the fighting spirit went out of the defenders. And the elven kingdoms fell one by one. Now, the meager strike force was joined by a vaster host by far, and suddenly with nary a whimper, Chrace fell - though with the wild nature of its inhabitants, their resistance did belie that fact. For all intents and purposes, though, the north had fallen. While in Saphery, Tarthalion and Calarion mustered the armies of that kingdom and of neighboring Yvresse, the Shadowlands was besieged by the vast tides of their ancient enemy. The 'ruler' of Nagarythe (that kingdom had had no real king since the days of Alith Anar) was killed, and the shadow warriors driven into hiding by the sheer force of numbers. Throughout the war, these warriors would harass the druchii lines, but their numbers were few. The muster in Saphery ended around the time of the fall of the Shadowlands, and so Malekith and his general Mortharor were threatened by the presence of an army on one side of either side of their attack. Mortharor did the only thing possible in the situation, splitting his army in three, sending one each way. With the vast amount of the attackers he could easily do this. One army swept into Ellyrion, the land of the horse-people. One built ships from the forests of Avelorn and set sail in a lightning strike across the Inner Sea. And the last, commanded by Mortharor himself, swept into the east, to a small pass known now as Dagorannon, the Battle Gate. There Tarthalion set out his force to stop the advancing attackers from entering Yvresse.  
  
Calarion looked with disgust around the small little hamlet that served as the base of operations for Tarthalion's commanders. It had taken a whole month for the muster to take place, and now because of their inaction the north had been lost. No word had come from Ellyrion for too long; the Dark Elves controlled the seas and no word could get through. While openly he agreed with his sire's plans of 'taking the charge' and all, secretly he agreed with the young mage, Teclan, or whatever his name was. The older generation had failed them. It's a good thing I'm not a dwarf, thought Calarion, or I'd have been exiled already! He ignored the methodical tramp of a group of Yvressan spearmen as they marched by, their blue banner, sporting a silver hand brandishing a bared blade, snapping proudly in the light wind. He had to get to Tarthalion. By his side walked another man, small and hunched over, from years of endless stealth. The man was Alatar, one of the refugee Nagarythian warriors, and 'Aesanar', proclaiming him the leader of a band of the skirmishers. Alatar had taken eagerly to the role of a scout, and his shadow warriors had already begun their search for the enemy's position. Which, apparently, they had found.  
  
Calarion and Alatar walked through the deserted streets of the town, until they reached the large hall that sat centrally. Several of the siltholrim knights were scattered around the perimeter of the abandoned oak building. Calarion walked up to one of them, a youthful-looking elf but with the obvious experience of battle ingrained upon his face. "My lord," said Tarran Angedhel, "your father is conversing inside with his commanders. He does not wish to be disturbed, I'm afraid." "He will for this!" Calarion retorted. At his side, the short elf stood forward. "I am Alatar. My gwathrim have located the advancing druchii." Tarran Angedhel didn't hesitate. "This way," he said, and led the two lords through the building to where Tarthalion was. The old elf looked up from detailed maps of the nameless pass. The stress of command was all too obvious in his demeanor, in the way he carried himself. But his back was still straight, though for how long? His age - a thousand-odd years - was all there today. Calarion wondered if his father would survive this war. "Greetings, Angedhel. As I recall, I did not wish to be disturbed." "I am sorry, my lord, but the scouts have returned." Tarthalion noticed Alatar then, and nodded to the short elf. Alatar strode forward, his feet silent utterly. The Shadow Warrior pointed to a point on the map about a half-mile north of the pass. "The druchii are currently around here. They are preparing for their assault before they advance further, but I would expect them within the hour." The gwathrim lord's voice was quiet and Calarion had to strain to hear the words. Tarthalion responded sharply. "Do you know what their deployment is? Battle plans?" "I saw little, but it appears apparent. Most of the infantry is in the middle, bolstered by a large force of those fanatical she-devils." "Witch Elves. Continue." "The flanks consist of swifter moving riders, both of horse and lizard- creature. There are several forces of foul winged creatures, to reinforce the gaps and for lightning assaults upon your war-machines. Very little in the way of missile fire." "Thank you. I shall prepare our defense."  
  
Another tent, a small way from Tarthalion, two more men also poured over maps. Mortharor's voice was cold and dark inside his grotesque helmet. "Did you let their scouts witness our lines?" The other bowed. "Yes, my lord. My Shades were watching them the whole time. They saw exactly what you desired them to see." "Good," snarled Mortharor. "I know their commander. An aged invalid, by all accounts. And his tactics are outdated and rely upon his perceived superiority. He shall see that, and immediately deploy his forces as I wish them deployed." Behind the skull-mask, Mortharor smirked. "And then I shall have him!"  
  
Flying overhead, the vast bird swept its right wing down, allowing it to spiral down further until it located a comfortable updraft. The eagle's name was Mithlome, and he was one of the few remaining members of the Great Eagles. So many had been killed when the dark elves assaulted their nests in the Annulii Mountains. Now the rest were providing aerial support for the noble Tarthalion against the harpies he warned would be coming. The eagle swept down further, until it espied something. Beneath it, the dark elves were moving! Their infantry in the middle, a light force of cavalry on either side. Was this the tide they had feared? Had Mithlome been able to, he would have laughed. Then he saw something else. In the middle of the ranks of infantry. He turned and began beating the air with his mighty pinions, watching cloud fly past. He must warn Tarthalion! Then a shower of bolts flew up from the ground. Unable to see them, Mithlome was riddled with bolts. He screamed in pain, tried to ignore his wounds, and fly on. But one of the crossbow bolts had torn through his left wing, and his flight was so slow, he was hardly surprised when the second volley struck. The mighty eagle screamed once, then fell from the sky, landing with an almighty crump! on the ground. Blood-stained feathers still floated in the air above him.  
  
Tarthalion saw them when they swept near the pass. Deployed exactly as Alatar had foretold. This would be a bloodbath! Behind his contingent of knights - both his elite siltholrim bodyguard and normal elven knights - several of the light bolt-throwers had been set up. They waited until the approaching horde was in range, before their crew hurried forward and fired them. Snapp! Snapp! Snapp! went the cords as they straightened, propelling the deadly bolts forward. They plunged into the massed ranks and sliced through the bodies. But the dark elves stood firm, despite horrendous casualties from the first barrage alone! They are still elves, after all, thought Tarthalion. The bolt throwers were supported by another rain of arrows, this time from the archers. More arrows flew across the field. It was met with answering fire by the dark elves, but the range of their small crossbows was too short to reach the High Elven ranks. Meanwhile, with too many casualties to bear, the dark elven warriors turned and fled from the field. A cheer of victory was raised from the massed High Elves. In the dark elven ranks, a mage stepped forward, and gestured suddenly. Lightning crackled around the enemy spellweaver. But Tarthalion did not worry. His own mage, Teclis, who had joined the camp, was a master spellcrafter. The young mage sprung forth and gestured. Around the dark elf sorcerer, the lightning flared up, before dying out. Charred remains of the sorcerer could be recognized vaguely. The dark elf host gave a great cry of despair, but they did not halt from their path, and they continued their implacable march. The high elves prepared to counter, rank upon rank of the Yvressan spearmen forming up in the centre. Tarthalion rode in their midst atop his steed Aglaroch, the horse's brilliant white coat practically shining. The dark elves prepared, and with a roar began advancing faster, sprinting across the field to the attack. The spearmen met them. Blood flowed, and now Tarthalion had to rely upon his troops, for orders in a situation such as this were pointless. Now Tarthalion could see the flanking action that Alatar had warned him of. Several dark elves mounted on two-legged riding lizards came hurtling through the ground. But Tarthalion had assigned a trap for them. Another unit was guarding the flanks of the main body of spearmen, and they calmly took the charge. The lizard-creatures snapped and hissed, tearing at the secondary spearmen, but they stood their ground. And when a secondary force of elven knights, commanded by Calarion, charged the rear of the dark elven knights, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Tarthalion laughed. The dark elven offensive had failed! Soon they would be routing, and he would chase them back all the way to Naggaroth! Then his laughter froze and died in his throat. For in the middle of the dark elven force, he could see their real plan. Chaos Warriors. Regiments of them. There was nothing in his army that could stand against them! The followers of Khorne swarmed out, swinging wicked flailed and barbed blades. Under their frenzied charge, the high elven line bulged with effort from holding them. Then it broke. The high elven spearmen turned and fled. "No!" screamed Tarthalion. This could not be happening! But it was. The chaos warriors had torn through their centre. Now he urged the main body of elven knights into a charge upon the chaos warriors. Hooves flickered in the air. Riders were pulled from their saddles and slaughtered. Chaos forces were trampled underfoot by the elven steeds. Now the other flank, though, was empty, where Calarion had sent Tarran Angedhel to ward off the other flank attack? What was going on there? The answer came when, on the sides of the pass, dark elf scouts suddenly rose out of cover. They had been working on this for a while. They heaved huge logs, with vicious metal spikes driven through them, to the edge of the small overhang they stood on, and then pushed them down to where Angedhel's unit stood. It was chaos. The logs tore through the legs of the horses, pitching riders to the ground where more of the huge logs crushed them. Only Tarran Angedhel and a few others managed to stay mounted, and they turned to quit the field immediately. The horsemen who had been supposed to go into the ambush on that flank now burst down the field - on Calarion's side. They caught the small unit of spearmen and rode them down. Within minutes, the entire army of defenders was routed, and Mortharor had swept into Yvresse. 


	7. Chapter 7

Clack. Clack. Clack. Tarthalion's boots rung and echoed in the broad corridor. By his side, the grim-faced, blood-stained Calarion stalked. Too many seemed to have Calarion's bitterness since the debacle. The corridor was sumptuously decorated, with statues and fine paintings adorning one wall, and delicate glass windows giving beautiful vistas over the marble towers of Tor Yvresse. White marble, which would be doused in the blood of its defenders. Calarion gave him a quick briefing on recent events while they walked through the palace. "The good news," Calarion explained soberly, "is that we have reinforcements here in the city. A group of Aveloran expatriates, led by Arhaindir Moonhand, are prepared to aid us. And the Phoenix King has sent a unit from Caledor, the Felix Legion, commanded by Prince Carus." "Carus!" explained Tarthalion. "I know him - he fought with me during the Norse raids." "What do you know of him?" "He is a good general, and a good elf. I'd trust him with my life." Calarion stopped walking, and spun to face his father. His face was darker than before, not that Tarthalion could have thought any grimmer was possible. "Good. Because you might just have to do that." "What do you mean?" "Your forces have turned against you. They don't trust you in command any more. They want Carus to lead." Tarthalion laughed harshly. "Carus is good, but I'm a better general. Why do they want him in charge?" Calarion looked away and somberly replied, "They feel your arrogance lost us the battle at the pass." "That's ridiculous!" "I know, but you know the way of people - if wrongs happen to them, they will look for a scapegoat. They chose you." Tarthalion gestured, his wrinkled face surprisingly peaceful. "Come on. I must speak with Carus." They continued down the corridor, and all the time dark thoughts filled Tarthalion's mind. What if I am getting too old for this? My time is nearly up here. What if it is over? At the end stood two of the sword-masters the White Tower had given them for the campaign. They relaxed when they saw Tarthalion, and one reached forward to open the door for him. Tarthalion absently nodded, and swept through the door. Behind the door, an aging elf - though not as old as he - stood slowly from a chair at which he sat. "Tarthalion?" "Carus!" The two elves wrapped each other in a rough bear-hug, slapping the other on the back. "How are you, you old war-horse?" said Carus, his voice thick. "Same as always - if a bit older." Tarthalion gestured. "My son, Calarion." Carus came forward and shook Calarion's hand firmly. "If you're half as great as your father, you'll be an elf to look out for indeed!" Not wishing to be outdone, Calarion replied, "And if you are half as good a tactician as he, you'll be able to sweep the druchii plague from our lands." Carus turned back to Tarthalion. "My own son, Ikarus, is running around here somewhere. He's probably with the troops practicing the sword. He takes it very seriously. But I'm sure you'll see him before we all go home." Tarthalion added, "If we get home." "True! But let's not dwell on these things." "Carus, I have heard you're to be in charge of the defense." "Yes. It would have been you but for that little disaster at the pass. How did you manage to botch things so much, by the way? Never fear though, you're to be my chief advisor." "Wonderful. So what sort of troops do we have at our disposal?" Carus spoke, as reciting from a list, "Lots of spearmen, archers, and knights; a few scouts, and a handful of bolt throwers. And a few other things like our sword-masters." "Will it be enough?" The normally cheerful Carus stopped smiling. "It'd better be."  
  
Prince Moranion huffed as he tapped his steed's flanks with his long riding- boots. The horse, Roheru, stooped immediately. It was like symbiosis, Moranion knew. He and Roheru were of one mind, one thought only, ever since they'd first been paired three hundred years ago or so. How could it be, he wondered, that those humans who lived far to the east could ride two or more horses in their life? Elven steeds, as all Ellyrians knew, were superior to those the humans used as they also lived a proper life length in idyllic Ulthuan. Not idyllic any more though, with the word outraged eagles - those that survived the purge - had brought to them. The Witch-King's army was drawn up just over the ridge, in and around the village Echare. There he was planning his next move, to bring his army against the charioteers of Tiranoc under Thaindal. Moranion's task was to make sure that the army never even left Echare. His task, and the task of the force of five thousand horsemen he'd bought with him. And an easy task, really, for all the fact they were outnumbered about three-to-one. For what could stand up to the horse-archers of Ellyrian? They would out-maneuver, out-shoot, and out-fight their foes, and wipe this army from the face of Ulthuan. The sound of hooves alerted Moranion to the presence of his scout, returned. "Aethenor! What word from the others?" The elf called Aethenor continued riding until he was close to Moranion, before answering, "All forces are ready. We surround their camp." "Good. Then let us ride!" cried Moranion, and he tapped Roheru in the flanks. The white stallion sprang forth, and Moranion bared his sword, brandishing it above his head. The light from the sun shone down on the blade, scintillating and shining all over the field! An omen, surely! The dark elf spearmen sprang to their feet, dropping the cards they held, and watched with amazement as a single rider bore down upon them wildly. "Prepare to die, druchii scum!" howled the crazed rider. The dark elves laughed at the obviously insane elf and moved forward to deal with him. But their laughter faded when around them, horsemen sprang from the rough bushes. They turned and fled back into the town, the thundering horde at their heels. Moranion caught the three elves, and with a set of swift, precise strikes sent them to the ground, where they were crushed underfoot by the trample of hooves. Moranion and his men rode through the town like a furious thunderbolt. His archers picked off any dark elves they saw. Then when the word came out from his forces that the main host had readied for battle and was moving for them, they wheeled their horses and burst from the town. The dark elves pursued, but on foot there was no way they could catch the swift horsemen. They formed up ranks and prepared with a wall of barbed spear-tips to receive the charge. The Ellyrians readied their lances. Then suddenly the light of Moranion's shining blade faded and died. The elven prince stopped and looked above at the strange black clouds that had appeared in the sky. "What foul sorceries are these?" he whispered, awestruck, as he tried to bring his steed under control. Then the lightning began. A bolt struck down, with deadly accuracy, unnatural accuracy, slamming into the midst of his forces. Horses screamed. He struggled with Roheru to bring him under control. The smell of cooked meat permeated the air. There was no rain. And then another lightning bolt struck, and another, and another, and the Ellyrians turned and fled. But there was no escaping the strange attacks that decimated the army. Only one of the Ellyrians remained on the field. Moranion still controlled Roheru, and now also he could see the spell-caster who had taken out their entire army without a single blow being struck. The elf stood on a chariot of some sort, and he was clad entirely in black-stained iron plate. What little could be seen of his skin was scarred, burnt, and twisted. Moranion hissed. It was the Witch-King himself! But never had Moranion heard that the Despised One commanded magics such as these! Another crack made Moranion look up. He did so, and glanced directly at a bolt falling at him. Seconds later, Moranion and Roheru's charred corpses lay on a field of charred corpses, and the Witch-King gloated. 


	8. Chapter 8

It was, Tarthalion was forced to admit, a very impressive sight. He and Carus stood amongst the troops arrayed upon the marble walls of Tor Yvresse, awaiting the onset of the dark elves. There was time only for one last inspection of the troops before the conflict. There was no way they could be prepared better. Bolt throwers scavenged from ships from Eataine lined the walls, so that there was no spot not visible by at least two groups of the Seaguard who manned them. The rest of the walls were patrolled by a mix of spearmen (to bear the brunt of the assault) and archers (for supporting fire). The front gates were guarded by several of the warrior-ascetics from the White Tower, who had actually volunteered for that the most dangerous position. Tarthalion had watched their practices as they swung their massive but still delicate greatswords in blinding arcs faster than even Carus' son Ikarus' skilled eyes could follow. Ikarus had given up, and pronounced with his customary solemnity that for the first time ever he pitied the dark elves who attacked there. Tarthalion was forced to agree with him. Sunlight shining parallel to the flat ground burst threw the light fog that permanently choked Yvresse, landing on immaculately polished mail and spear- head, giving the appearance that the defenders were forged of molten gold. An inspiring sight. Now he stalked along the line, talking to the subcommanders briefly. One caught his eye, an elf clad in the garb of one of the gwathrim, but with his cloak in the hues of wilderness rather than the customary desolate gray. The elf waved him over. The elf was leaning comfortably on his longbow when Tarthalion came to him. His hair was not the golden shade customary of the elves of the south, or the light brown of one of the horse-people, but black. A Nagarythi elf then, but judging by the green cloak and easy smile, a very unusual one! "I have received word from my scouts," the elf said in a low, melodious tone. "What do they have to say? Have you learnt where Alatar is?" "Alas, I know nothing of the Aesanar. He seems to have disappeared - but that is the custom of our kind," His curiosity heightened, Tarthalion said, "Excuse me, but exactly what is your type?" Realizing how impolite the question was, he quickly added, "Not to be rude or anything." The other smiled. "Think nothing of it. Let us say - love can work miracles." Seeing the leader of the next force along suddenly, an Avelornian lady, Tarthalion grinned. "I understand. So, what do your scouts say?" The Avelornian gwathri answered, "They are most puzzled. The enemy general - the Despised One's best, in fact, a druchii named Mortharor - halted his troops and, rather than an immediate assault as we had feared, waited for allies in the form of slave troops. Now those slaves - goblins, with a few others flung in - have arrived, and they began marching about an hour ago. They will be here in minutes." Tarthalion could see why they were puzzled. Had the assault come before, while the garrisons were being sorted sand the defenses prepared, they might well have conquered. But this would be a harder target now. The move made no sense. "The only thing I can think of," offered the elf, "is that they were waiting for more than reinforcements." "That is what I thought too. Did your spies see anything else? "No, my lord." Tarthalion left the strange elf, hurrying for where he knew Carus would be - with the cavalry. Carus loved combat on horseback and was above-average at it. Strange, for Tarthalion only rode Aglaroch for the added protection. Carus was in the courtyard with his riders, both the traditional Elven knights and those brought with Carus from Caledor, from his 'Felix Legion' (Note: In elven, 'Felix' is flame-red). They were preparing bridles, and several citizens who were not being included in the militia were helping, cutting more long shafts of ash for when the lances would break. There was the core of the command - Carus, Ikarus, Calarion, Tarran, and he would all be amongst them. Carus came over, his ornate dragon-helm cradled under his arm. "What news?" the Caledorian asked cheerfully. "The first attack should be here soon. They've been waiting for the arrival of goblin slaves. Now they'll be upon us in minutes." "Right!" cried Carus, and he bellowed, "All elves, prepare! The enemy approaches!" From the North Gate an answering cry from Arhaindir Moonhand, the strange shadow warrior. "They are upon us!" Tarthalion cursed and turned, sprinting to the North Gate. Behind him, his bodyguard Tarran Angedhel vaulted from the shadow and raced after him, while the rest cantered to their posts. Moonhand had his bow out, and an arrow knocked. Another quiver was positioned at his belt, and two more lay nearby, propped up against the parapets. "There they are," he gestured. They were visible to Tarthalion's aged eye also. The horizon, thankfully devoid of fog, was crawling with black shapes. The goblin slaves. The goblins came closer, and Moonhand signaled his forces to fire. Waves of arrows sprang from the North Gate, and were joined by shots from the other elves on the walls. Most fell short, but many fell amongst the goblins. But the cowardly goblins did not run, not even when the bolt throwers began to scythe fire through their ranks, or when Teclis' fireballs began to rain upon them. The dead fell, and were churned into the mud by the vast host. Tarthalion commented to Tarran, "Strange, for goblins to hold this long. They must fear Mortharor more than they fear us." Moonhand interjected as he removed his emptied quiver and replaced it with a fresh one, "Or else their courage is bolstered by their numbers. We have killed so many of them, and yet they still come!" Then with a whoomph! from the back of the dark elven ranks, two fireballs were propelled into the wall. The engineers who manned the catapults, fortunately, had aimed poorly, but where the flaming projectiles hit the white walls, they left great black burns. The goblins had reached the bottom of the wall now, and half began opening fire with their own small bows while the rest set scaling ladders against the walls. One elven archer in Moonhand's force was struck by a skilled shot in the eye. The elf screamed in pain, and toppled off the wall into the mass of goblins. Moonhand spun, and released his own arrow at the killer. The shot blasted through the small greenskin's chest, killing instantly. The first goblins reached the top of the wall. A small head looked around just over the edge. Then it saw a boot which struck it in the head, sending it flying from the ladder. More swarmed up to the wall, and the spearmen took up positions at the wall's edge, thrusting with spear and bashing with shield while their foes hacked with wild abandon. At their head were Tarran and Tarthalion always. The blade of Tathel Sapherior glowed a fey blue as it cleft through the shrieking ranks. And Tarran's own was possessed of an unnatural quickness that let it fly through the air. But skilled as those paladins were, they were but two, and there were hundreds of the goblins. Arhaindir Moonhand cried as a goblin pierced him in the side, though with his longsword he struck home immediately. The other Avelornians cried as they were slowly overwhelmed. Then there were more elves there, the sword-masters. Great blades flying as in a courtly dance from Lothern, they dove into the fray. Only a handful, but where they stood the goblins fell back, blood making standing slippery.  
  
The catapults fired again, this time striking lower. The pitch landed in the goblins, inciting a frenzy in them as they turned and fled from the slaughter. It was too much for them. Tarthalion stood wearily, bathed almost entirely in goblin blood. Arhaindir was wrapping a clean white cloth around his upper arm, which was quickly stained to a dirty crimson. And Tarran lay comatose, blood running from a thousand wounds. Seeing an elf whose wounds were not too severe, Tarthalion snapped, "Take him to the healers, now!" The elf took one startled look at the anger on the old elf's face before slinging the dying elf over his shoulder and running. "Will he live?" asked Moonhand. "I don't know. The healers can do miracles. But they're tired, and overwhelmed with work. Even if he does survive, he'll be out of the siege until it's concluded, one way or another." "Still, look around you." He did - and was shocked. With his exhaustion, he'd never noticed the sounds of battle had ceased. Dead goblins lay everywhere, and more elven corpses than he'd have liked. "We've won the day," said Moonhand. "Be thankful for that alone." And he left Tarthalion to find the rest of his forces. Tarthalion wandered down to below, where the corpses of elf and horse alike lay. Several elves stood, checking the dead. One was Calarion. "We've won - but at great cost," the young elf said bitterly. "Is it really a victory?" "It is," the father said sternly. "Where is Carus?" "Retired to plan the next day's action. We've beaten the slaves, but he and I feel that it was only meant to wear us down." "I agree. There was no skill in their assault. Almost like it didn't matter how it turned out." Calarion said, "What are you thinking?" "I'm not sure." Then Moonhand came amongst them. His face was pale with fear. "My lord! I know what is going on!" "What?! Quickly, man!" "The East Gate was not attacked by goblins, my lord, but by dark elves!" "And ?" "Not warriors! Assassins!" Tarthalion didn't answer. He gestured to some nearby knights and began running for Carus' quarters, praying he would not be too late.  
  
The small band burst into the main palace minutes after the assassins. They could see the few guards, the rest being still on the walls. Those guards now lay, killed cleanly and swiftly. Tarthalion checked who there was amongst his party as they sprinted on, following the trail of corpses. Himself. Calarion. Moonhand. And Carus' boy Ikarus. A small group. He prayed it would be enough. They sprinted at break-neck speed along the long corridor, beautiful no more with the glass windows and priceless sculptures stained with the blood of the defenders. They reached the door, tried to fling it open. Locked. Calarion and Ikarus began bashing wildly on it. On the third try it was knocked off its hinges and flung into Carus' command room. Inside was a sight of horror. Five dark-cloaked men with bloodied swords stood inside. Four were around the door. The fifth, their leader, stood over Carus' cooling body. Blood's stench permeated the whole room weirdly. The door flew where the four were standing. They rolled or dodged out of the way, before coming on hard and fast, swords and dirks flashing. Ikarus paid them no heed. Roaring a cry of hatred and vengeance he cannonballed through the attackers into the leader, sword striking like a viper. The others flung themselves into combat. Blades struck so rapidly the noise became a single, drawn-out shriek. With the savagery of blows, blood flew from both sides of the fray. Ikarus was the first to make a kill, for all that he was facing two foes, not one. The skill given to him through hours of practice was tempered with a great fury at the death of his father. He kicked at the leader, who flung himself back in a somersault before coming back again. The high elf parried the scimitar and jumped lithely over the sweeping dagger, before raining two-handed blows at his foe's skull. The dark elf curled into a forward roll, out of the enraged assault, as his underling attacked. But this one was not as skilled as his master. Ikarus swung his sword low, and the weak attack was easily parried. The assassin then sneered, bringing his sword in line with Ikarus' exposed neck. But the crafty warrior had planned this, and snapped the sword further down, bringing his foe's left hand to the ground. Then with his armored boot he stamped on the hand, crushing it. The assassin howled, pulling up his mangled hand, and Ikarus swung, a messy blow that dissected the assassin from the hip to the shoulder. Calarion swung a one-handed blow at his foe, and their blades locked. Then the warrior punched out with his other hand, stunning his foe. The assassin tried to dodge, but Calarion's sword was driven firmly through his gut. Calarion spun and delivered a skull-shattering blow to another assassin. Tarthalion, encouraged, redoubled his attack, and the sword of Tathel Sapherion cleft through sword, skin, flesh, and bone. Now Ikarus faced off against the only remaining assassin, the leader. Both swung their swords two handed, lightly, swiftly. The assassin struck first, twisting the blow before it was parried. Ikarus leapt aside on one leg, and spun, the other leg striking the assassin, who simply took it in a forward roll. He sprang out of it, and pivoted, the sword leading the way. But Ikarus parried with skill, and counterattacked. The blades began to ring as the assassin forced Ikarus back. Then Ikarus ducked when he should have parried. The blow struck hard on the side of his head, making his ears ring and blood trickle down his forehead. But now he could attack, and did, his sword sliding straight through the assassin chief's heart. The dark elf fell back, blood staining his breast and mouth, and Ikarus finished with one last blow, with all his force. The head of the assassin struck a wall, and then slid down, leaving a bloody stain on the wall. It was a small comfort when compared to the massacred body of Prince Carus. Ikarus - now Prince Ikarus - looked up from the kill. His sword dropped from his hands. He fell to his knees with a clank. And he began to cry. 


	9. Chapter 9

The next day began before the sun rose. Through the mists that had returned to their customary positions, the lights of campfires could be seen around Tor Yvresse's scarred walls. The campfires of the druchii, their illumination like the light of the sun, or like as much of the sun as was ever seen in Yvresse. The dark elves were still slumbering, at the time. Only a few token guards to alert the host if the high elves sallied forth. And the grim form of a new arrival on the scene, the black-stained plate mail of Mortharor. The Witch-King's greatest general was swinging his double-headed halberd above his head, while his sparring partners, a small group of assassins, hung back, swords held tightly. And off the side sat two more men, one also clad in black and grays, the other in the huge armor and massive horned helmet of a Chaos worshipper. Mortharor lunged forward, bringing the staff in a sweeping arc that forced the leftmost of the assassins to jump back. "What news from your agents?" he asked, sounding distinctly bored. The assassin not involved in the duel replied, "My agent in the city reports mixed success with the attack yesterday." Mortharor charged the two assassins on the right, his halberd flying. "How so?" "They succeeded in killing the general in charge of the city, but apparently were spotted when entering the city. Shortly after they entered, the old leader, Tarthalion, led a band of men inside to fight the assassins. They killed them all." Mortharor's halberd twisted until it struck an assassin's hand. A longsword dropped to the ground. "But our agent has not been exposed?" "No sir." "Good," concluded Mortharor. His halberd was wrenched free from the chest of the assassin, and he pivoted lightly on the spot to face the two remaining ones. They charged him, but he parried both attacks simultaneously with each end of the halberd, and with a step stood between them. "What do you have to say, Ferik Kasterman?" Kasterman, leader of the Tzeenchian sorcerers known only as the Coven of Ten, said, "We have been sent here by the Dreaded One. He desires that we destroy the elven mage in Tor Yvresse." Mortharor stood on the spot, idly parrying attacks from all three assassins, as he asked, "Really? Why the mage?" "The Dreaded One did not choose to elaborate." "I tire of this," Malekith's general said. He increased the speed of the blurred polearm beyond the ability of Kasterman or the other assassin to tell individual attacks. Within seconds, three mutilated corpses were staining the expensive carpets on the bottom of the tent. "Kasterman, I am sure you can lure out their mage - Teclis, that is his name, or so my agent reports - without my help. Which is just as well, since I will not be commanding the assault at the moment. It is time to put my plan into action."  
  
The young raven-haired elf leant his staff against the parapets of blackened Tor Yvresse, and gratefully took the offered skin of cold water. He splashed some over his face, and then drank down with long gulps the rest of it, before handing the empty leather to the runner, and retrieving his stave. Teclis waited impatiently for the return of the dark elven forces, as he mused on the tangled path he'd followed since leaving the White Tower. Joining this army to break the power of the Dark Elves, so he could slip behind their lines to find Tyrion and Alarielle. Teclis? The mage dropped his staff in shock. "Who spoke?" he whispered. Teclis. Come to me, Teclis. The voice was in his mind. Teclis thought, Tyrion? Yes. Help me, Teclis. The mage stooped to retrieve his staff. Where are you? The Dark Elves have me. I am in their camp. But you can rescue me. Come rescue me. Teclis rose and started off as fast as he could go. Not once did he stop and think about the probabilities involved.  
  
Teclis was glad for the shroud of mist that the sun had not yet burned off the face of Yvresse. The dark elven scouts did not seem to have spotted him yet. And the voice of his brother through their mental link beckoned him, and inspired greater stealth then he had ever used before. I am in the largest tent in the centre, Tyrion said, his mental voice harsh with strain. And so his brother crouched at the base of the tent, a dark cloak camouflaging him against the canvas. Two guards stood outside the tent, elite warriors clasping great axes. If they hit him with those, he would die. And there was no other way into the tent. Unless he made one, that was. He sidled around the back, and with swift motions of Belannaer's longsword cut a way in to the tent. It was just as he had imagined it, if all too easy. He sheathed the blade and crawled into the tent. All too easy, indeed, Tyrion said. And a great web of black magic dropped over his mind. Cutting him off from magic. Blinding him. From the edges of the tent, ten men appeared, hands crackling with arcane power. Wearing robes of deep black and muted blue. Except the leader, who wore the fell armor, in similar hues, of a Chaos sorcerer. The leader spoke again, with the voice Teclis had thought of as Tyrion. "You are a great disappointment. I had hoped for more challenge this day." Teclis' mind strained against the mental shield, with too much effort to let him speak. Sweat ran down his brow. But the shield held. He strained, throwing the full might of his mind against it. Two of the spellcasters fell back as if punched in the stomach. "He's stronger than we thought!" wheezed the leader. "Kill him immediately!" The sorcerers began to chant, and with dread Teclis recognized the spell. Should it be cast, his body would be unaffected, but his mind. He renewed his efforts at the shield. Several of the enemy collapsed from the strain on their shield. Others stopped casting. But the leader kept the spell with a relentless pace. One last try. His fist of mental power stuck the shield again. The shield flexed. It bulged. It held. It broke. Teclis blasted through the blackness and immediately began to draw upon the winds of magic himself, manipulating their energy into a shield of his own, though of a different sort. Kasterman's spell went off. It flashed through the air in a wave of palpable darkness, and struck Teclis' weak defenses. The brilliant shield engulfed the darkness, and both were engulfed. Teclis swiftly surveyed the trap, while Kasterman recovered from the destruction of his spell. Fully half of the Coven of Ten were down, their minds destroyed when he had blasted out of the shield. The other half were surrounding him, casting their spells. He began his own enchantment, and stumbled through the words. This was a contest of nerves, for speed and accuracy would win the day. Teclis' spell manifested first, a blinding flash of light that lit the tent instantly. The Coven cried out, clutching their sightless eyes. Even Kasterman. Teclis followed with another spell, capitalizing on his advantage. A small stream of fire that engulfed two of the Coven. One collapsed, while the other began screaming hysterically and trying to beat out the fire on his robe. Teclis grinned viciously, and began another spell. Bands of darkness appeared around his chest, and tightened, squeezing the life and warmth out of him. It faded soon, but Teclis felt weak, and knew that Kasterman's spell had left him near death. Teclis countered with a lightning bolt that blasted into the chest of a member of the Coven, incinerating flesh and leaving blackened bones easily visible through the remaining chunks of flesh. Not a pretty sight, but necessary. Kasterman retaliated by summoning a great wind, blowing Teclis back and threatening to blow him and the tent away, until Teclis finally smashed the spell with a word of power. Teclis made the stones under their feet fly up in an eruption of earth and flames, throwing Kasterman to his feet and crushing most of the others. Kasterman emerged from the rubble, groaning in pain. None of the other members of the Coven moved. The tent hung about them in tatters, more not there than there. Dark elves outside cried at the chaos that had sprung up in their midst, but an old spell of Kasterman's thankfully kept them from entering the tent. And him from leaving, but that was a small point. Teclis prepared to finish the duel. A last spell, and Kasterman would join his gods in the Beyond. A torrent of flame engulfed Kasterman, and it was over. But when the flames ended, somehow Kasterman was still standing there, clutching a chunk of rock that looked like nothing quite so much as it resembled coal. And the coal shone with a red light. Kasterman grinned, changing the flow of blood and grime on his face, and said raggedly, "I win." "How do arrive at that one, fool?!" "This. stone contains. the spell. in it. I.break it.and you.die in flames." Teclis laughed. "But you will be dead, too." "And.so will.you be." And he rose the stone above his head, preparing to release the flames. Teclis immediately began another spell, before a horrible realization hit him. He was too exhausted to cast any more spells. He reached for the power, missed, and reached again. But he was too exhausted and would not cast another spell. As if time had slowed, the high elf saw Kasterman lob the stone. It slowly flew towards him, and towards his death. A voice came into his mind. Not Tyrion's. Not Kasterman's. The words were Belannaer's, and they spoke from his memory. It is more powerful than it looks. There are runes of piercing, and also of lightning, engraved upon the blade Teclis pulled the blade free, and cried out, "Xathlos!" Lightning, in the Old Tongue. A blast of lightning sped from the end of the sword. They burst through the stone before it had gone far from Kasterman, engulfing him again. Then Kasterman was struck by the lightning, and flung into the magical barrier. His charred and mutilated body did not move. The spell that held the walls up ended, and the ragged tent collapsed. Kasterman's corpse, or what remained of it, fell to the ground. So did Teclis, exhausted by the powers he had used. The last thing he felt before unconsciousness swept in like the tide was rough hands pulling him from the ground. 


	10. Chapter 10

Tarthalion sat at the large oak desk, his back bent by age and weariness. The coppery smell of blood still wafted around, permanently exuded by the wood, despite the best efforts of the servants to clean the desk of poor Carus' blood. Tarthalion was supposed to be scribing a letter to the Phoenix King, to tell him of the death of Carus and ask for aid. But instead he was lost in discussion, sitting with the group the Yvressans had dubbed, 'The Inner Council', which consisted of Tarthalion himself, the level-headed Arhaindir Moonhand, and Calarion. Tarthalion's son was enjoying a rise in popularity, after his heroic fighting at the gate, and his defeat of the assassins the previous day, as well as repelling a midnight raid with skilled tactics and inspired leadership. One of the Inner Council was missing. "How is Ikarus bearing up?" asked Moonhand quietly. "I checked on him before I came here. He spent all night in front of the altar of Isha, praying," said Calarion. "He's not taking the death of his father well," replied the shadow warrior. Tarthalion put down the quill he'd been toying with. "The question is, is Ikarus capable of taking control in his father's place?" Calarion answered him. "Capable of taking control of the Felix Legion, yes. Control of the city, though." Moonhand continued, "From what I know of Ikarus, he would not be a good commander of the city. Lord Tarthalion, this is your battle again." Tarthalion smiled tightly. "Before the war, all I'd wanted to do was turn the responsibilities over to Calarion and find myself a nice pond somewhere with plenty of fish. But somehow I think that one will be delayed." Arhaindir Moonhand replied, "Put it aside - but do not forget it. If we survive this war, I might just come with you to the pool." "Seriously, though, the thing that worries me is Mortharor. I know his reputation, and it disturbs me greatly that your scouts have not seen him since two days ago. What he is up to, I want to know - and I have a feeling that I will know, before too long at all." "I have heard that Ferik Kasterman and the Coven of Ten have arrived in Mortharor's camp," replied Moonhand. He was about to say more, but the doors burst open, to reveal a frantic- looking archer clad in the light armor typical of his kind. Calarion rose fluidly. "What is it? Are the druchii attacking?" The exhausted archer wheezed, "Follow me!" and went off again at a great pace. Tarthalion and Arhaindir Moonhand rose also. Exchanging concerned looks, they drew their weapons - Tarthalion the sword of Tathel Sapherion; Moonhand his great yew longbow. Then the three hurried down the palatial corridor the archer was running down. They burst out of the palace, and over one of the aerial bridges to the walls. There they beheld a sight that made their mouths hang open, a veritable storm of fire and lightning in the dark elven camp, coming from the tent of Mortharor. The earth erupted, sending a sky-high pillar of flaming rubble, which was replaced by more firestorms, and another lighting blast. "What's going on?" yelled Calarion over the deafening sound of the magic, his cloak snapping behind him, threatening to tear itself free and fly off. Then the storms ended, and the amazed onlookers could see the now-clear (if blackened and smoking) patch of ground. Burning corpses were scattered around, and in the middle lay a more intact body, wearing robes unmistakable to Moonhand's keen eye. The robes of a Mage of the White Tower. "What is going on?" cried Calarion again. Moonhand replied, "The Dark Elves have our mage."  
  
Teclis awoke to pain, and to a darkness equal to that he had left behind. His back felt strained, his arms limp, his legs loose. It did not take long for him to realize why. A light appeared before him, and Teclis cried out and shut his eyes, as the brightness hurt his eyes. "Yes, cry." Teclis opened his eyes and stared straight into the guttering flames of the torch, into the face of his captor. Black eyes glared straight back. "I am Darsil. Learn my name, for it will be the last you ever hear," said the dark elf. Teclis watched as the tall druchii stood from the crouch he had been in, striding around the small tent. One of the Assassins of Naggaroth, he decided. Still, it would be simple to cast a spell, turn Darsil into a pile of ash, and escape back to Tor Yvresse. The binding of his hands made life harder, and he did not have the powers of the Warcrown to sustain his strength, but he was a skilled mage and could easily dispense with gestures. He began coughing, incanting the mystical phrases under his breath. Darsil sprung back to him, and slapped Teclis hard in the belly, making the mage end the spell and double over in pain. The other hand flew to point two fingers at his left eyes, only just not touching. "If you try to cast another spell, I will ram my fingers through your eye and into your brain," promised Darsil in an almost cheerful voice. "I will know, you must understand." Teclis cowered. Evidently the assassin's hearing was good enough to hear him, and Teclis had no doubt the assassin would carry through his threat. "Much better," said Darsil. "You know, I have orders to kill you. The Dreaded One has ordered your death. I cannot understand why, but he has sent his best agents after you and the worthless fop you call brother." Teclis grew alarmed at the mention of his brother, but did not dare speak. Darsil noticed. "Yes, there are teams of assassins scouring the woods to the north for his and the Everqueen. Led by the second-best of the assassins, Vuthil." Teclis said, "Second-best? Why would the Witch-King send the second best?" He saw Darsil begin scowling but carried on regardless. "I think it is more likely that he is the best." Darsil's leather-gauntleted hand smashed into Teclis' cheek, snapping his head around painfully. The mage pulled his head up groggily, and spat out bloody spittle. "You must learn to control your tongue," said Darsil. "I should kill you, but I have decided to leave you for my master to kill when he returns. Mortharor the Black always enjoys such little things from his subordinates." "Where is Mortharor?" Darsil laughed. "Mortharor has left to destroy the rest of you. He has left just a token force to hold the defenders' attention while he goes to destroy the mages in the Tower." Then the sound of battle echoed outside. Darsil rose smoothly. "What?" he hissed, pulling free the traditional broadsword from his back. Another blaze of light came into the tent, as the flap was flung back. Blinding white light poured in, except where the black form of an elven warrior blocked it off. With Calarion's voice, the silhouette cried, "Your time is up, Assassin!"  
  
After Tarthalion, Calarion, and Arhaindir witnessed the fall of Teclis, a great debate was held inside the city of Tor Yvresse over what to do next. Arhaindir argued stridently that he should lead a small force of elven infiltrators to rescue the lost Teclis, while Calarion, although wishing to save Teclis, countered that it was to the detriment of the entire city, who would surely suffer if the gwathrim were destroyed. Ikarus was still in mourning, a mourning which Calarion described as 'soul-wracking', though he was unable to explain why. So the decision fell upon Tarthalion whether or not to open the gates and try to recover Teclis. Tarthalion said, calmly and precisely, "I think we will attack." Calarion snapped back, "But why? Surely the life of our mage is not worth the life of all our defenders!" "It is not. But I have a feeling there is more at play here. Have you, for instance, wondered why throughout this day, you have not seen a single horseman on their side?" Calarion's brow furrowed. "I had not noticed." "I think the dark elves are up to something. There were horsemen aplenty last night. But suddenly overnight all the cavalry are gone. All their fast striking force. I suspect something, and with Mortharor himself missing, I suspect even more strongly." "What do you expect?" "I expect that, should we attack, we shall find ourselves winning the battle. And so I have already given orders that all our troops assemble in the main square." Ten minutes later, the dark elves were astounded when the gates of the city burst open, and Tarthalion thundered out on horseback, followed by the massed cavalry of the Felix Legion. Ikarus had roused himself with news of possible vengeance, and he was clad in his red and green hued Ithilmar plate armor, hacking viciously at the dark elves with a wild fury. The druchii infantry mustered their ranks, formed into fearsome blocks of soldiers bristling with spears like a porcupine. But their resolve was shaken. Howling the name of the Phoenix King, the Caledorian cavalry pounded down upon the central mass. Steel-clad hooves and ilthilmar lances perforated defenders in a gory display. Where is Mortharor? Where is Darsil? The rumors spread amongst the ranks, causing as much damage as the relentless stampede of horses. Finally, the dark elven defenders realized they had been abandoned. They turned and tried to flee, but the swift elven horses caught them and their bleeding bodies were churned into the mud. Calarion turned his horse from the slaughter, using his knees, for no elf ever uses a bridle. His goal had been set by Tarthalion - find the missing mage. And so he opened tent after tent. Finally, he came across one that was made of such a thick black material that no sunlight could penetrate it. From inside he could hear a voice. He vaulted off his horse and, drawing his keen blade, flung back the tent flap. By the sunlight that now streamed in, he could see two figures. One, wrists bound, was Teclis. The other bared a curved blade from his back with preternatural grace. With a roar, the two combatants came together. Calarion stepped back, eager not to fight in the narrow confines of the tent, that would restrict his blows. The other took that as acceptable, for the assassin barreled out. Calarion took advantage of fixed posture and slashed, but the assassin dropped into a roll, and came to his feet behind Calarion, spinning with his blade leading. Calarion parried awkwardly with one hand and punched with the other. The assassin grunted, but the elflord had only been able to put minimal effort into the blow, and it served as a mere distraction only. "I am Darsil," the assassin hissed. "Lord Assassin. Say my name as you die." "I am Calarion," retorted the elf with confidence he did not feel, "and my blade shall sing your name as it sings through your neck!" With that, Darsil thrust the locked blades back, hoping to throw Calarion to the ground. But the skilled warrior stepped back, and slashed quickly at Darsil's face. The assassin laughed at the clumsy attack and evaded with ease, as he swung his attacks, one-two, one two. Calarion blocked neatly then riposted with a low scythe that Darsil parried easily. Then the assassin with incredible dexterity snapped one leg high up in an arc. Calarion cried out as the boot caught him in the face, snapping back his head and making a thin trickle of blood run from his nose. Darsil immediately followed up, attacking repeatedly and with fury. The stunned elf blocked as best he could, but was forced slowly back. Then the Lord Assassin swung out his leg low, tripping the elf. Teclis' voce came before the killing blow could land. "Ythrai!" The Lord Assassin grunted, and tried to land the killing blow, but to his shock he found his muscles would not move. He bent his iron will to the task, and could feel his arms begins to move, to throw off the powerful enchantment. Then with a shock he felt the sensation of cool steel driving through his ribs, ripping his heart. The shock immediately kicked him from the paralyzation, and he staggered back, hands too weak to even hold his great blade any more. Calarion looked on, disgusted, as his foe collapsed, vomiting up blood. Then finally with a last creak of air through his lungs, Darsil lay still. The Lord Assassin was dead.  
  
It was under a sky flaming red with the setting sun that Calarion and Teclis reunited with Tarthalion, Moonhand, and Ikarus. The young mage, weak from lack of his special herbal potion, immediately gasped out, "Lord Tarthalion! I must tell you." "Tell me what?" said the old elf, leaning wearily against his horse's flank. "I know where Mortharor is." Tarthalion was immediately standing bolt upright. "Where, boy?" "Mortharor has. taken his cavalry. They go.lightning raid to.destroy the Loremasters." Calarion looked up in horror. Dried blood made his face an ugly sight. "Knowing Mortharor, if he attacks the White Tower, he could conquer it easily." Tarthalion turned to Moonhand, who stood nearby. "Tell the cavalry to make ready. We leave at once, for the White Tower." 


	11. Chapter 11

They lay side by side on the bracken, hiding behind a small bush that seemed just too small for either one to fit behind, let alone both. Before the elflord and the Everqueen, four armed men in dark cloaks were padding forth on soft feet, blades in hand. If the four found Tyrion and Alarielle, they would die. "Vuthil, over here!" one yelled. Tyrion's face contorted with rage as he saw the scarred Assassin, the assassin who had killed his friend. Alarielle's hand lay on his arm, though, a gentle and slight reminder of peace and rationality. Vuthil wandered over to the first assassin, and looked down at the fresh footprints that were driven into soft mud. "Well spotted," Vuthil said ruthlessly. Then he turned and looked directly at the bush. "The print is very recent - less than an hour. Were they running, we would also have seen them - the forest is not so thick here." Alarielle drew in her breath as her innards tightened with fear. "Therefore," continued the lecturing assassin, "they must be hiding." He gestured to the bush. "You can get up, now." The assassins drew their swords in a heartbeat, and began running for the shrub. Tyrion stood, and drew his own sword. "Vuthil! You die now!" Vuthil laughed easily as he closed the distance to the pair. "I would run, if I were you, fop!" Tyrion's blood boiled in indignation, and he attacked. Blades flew in a constant blur as they spun, attacking and counterattacking in all possible angles. Tyrion's mind was furiously concentrating, letting the elflord fight at a level beyond most, as he realized that this time it was kill or be killed. Tyrion scored first blood somehow, tearing the assassin's sleeve open. Then Vuthil countered, ripping the blade along the half-healed wound on Tyrion's side, making the elflord scream in pain. Vuthil attacked again, a straight- out punch that dropped Tyrion to the ground. "You are beaten!" gloated the assassin. "Now I kill you and your Everqueen." ""Never!" cried Tyrion, and he slammed his foot into Vuthil's groin. The Assassin howled, but still attacked. Tyrion parried with ease. Then his mind filled with pain. Teclis! Many miles away, Teclis was caught by Ferik Kasterman, and the psychic residue of that shock poured back through Tyrion's mind. The elf-lord screamed and fell. "I.have you.now, you.bastard!" hissed Vuthil, and lined his sword up with the writhing elf's head. Then Vuthil's body arched back with pain. Vuthil screamed in pure agony. Behind him, Grathik withdrew the small knife he'd just rammed into his master's back. "And now you die," said Grathik calmly. But Vuthil did not die. He turned, laughing harshly. "It takes more than a dagger to kill a Master Assassin, wretch." Grathik rose the knife to stab again, this time driving it into his foe's shoulder. A torrent of blood came out, but the assassin simply attacked. His sword swung, slower than usual. Behind him, Tyrion staggered to his feet, and fled with Alarielle. Grathik dropped the knife and drew his own sword instead in a lightning move, parrying Vuthil's. They dropped back, Vuthil staggering and bleeding, Grathik straight and firm. They attacked. Both blades flew through the air. But Grathik's was the faster, and his sword broke through Vuthil's guard, turning his flank awash with blood. Too late Grathik knew that his opponent had not intended to parry, but had accepted the blow. Then Vuthil's sword struck him, too, in the side. This blow, though, kept going, cleaving the treacherous assassin in twain.  
  
Calarion and Arhaindir stood a moment longer at the gates of Tor Yvresse under the great black scars that were the last reminder of dark elven siege, aside from the heaped corpses of dark elves and high elves, as the dust from Tarthalion's column moved settled itself. Around the pair, the high elves moved on foot, singing a haunting dirge of death to the slain, as they lay corpses in two great piles, ready for the funeral pyres. Sword- masters and spearmen, archers and ithiltaen, all were united here. Calarion turned and wandered amongst them, seeing the dead. Ayral and Daerlon, Laeranion and Ealeic, Methesdyar and Sythas, and more. So many elves had fallen that day, to go to the halls of Morai-Heg. The field was cleared save for the ever-pervasive blood that soaked the torn-up turf. Two huge pyres were prepared now. Calarion took up two burning brands, and walked slowly towards the bodies, as the death hymn climaxed in unmatched beauty and sadness. "Sleep in peace, and awake in joy," Calarion murmured softly, the traditional farewell, and lay one brand at the foot of each pyre reverentially. The flames of Asuryan roared, and the spirits of the fallen took their path with the smoke to the heavens, as the dirge continued. Calarion left when the song ended, though most of the warriors stood on until midnight when the fires ended, leaving only ashes of the underlying logs behind. He did not go straight back to the palace and to his bed, though the army would be leaving to reinforce Tarthalion before dawn. Instead he wandered down the streets of Tor Yvresse, in the dim mage-light of enchanted lanterns. The streets were dark, and only a handful of elves still wandered them. Those that saw him bowed or inclined his head, for the commoners idolized him after his defeat of the assassins who killed Carus, and his killing of the Lord Assassin. When he arrived at the palace, it was past midnight, and Lileath shone overhead in a peaceful half-moon. He climbed up the stairs and entered to the small but comfortable quarters he had been given, and there after stripping off his ithilmar corselet and swordbelt, settled down into a deep sleep. He woke again an hour before dawn, feeling exhausted after the meager sleep. Binding on again his army, he washed his face, gulped down a quick meal, and hurried out to where his army was to meet. Several elves were there already, and more came before long. Moonhand appeared short minutes after Calarion, great longbow and enruned sword girt to his side. "Stay here," Calarion said. "I want to see how the healers are doing." The healers' tents were set up just outside the scorched walls, and several elf citizens were rushing around assisting them as they took care of the more-injured soldiers. One of the camp followers stopped him, a striking elf woman with honey-blond hair. "I don't know who you are," she said in a beautiful lilting voice, "but the healers are overtaxed. They've no time to be disturbed. Tell me what you need." Calarion did not respond, entranced by her. She coughed lightly, restoring the elf's attention to the present. "Oh, I'm, sorry. I'm just here to see if there's anything the healers need." "More helpers!" "I'll see what I can do. I might send some soldiers to help." "Well, you're here now. Can you wash those cloths there in hot water, and then return them to me?" It was not a request. Calarion laughed to himself at being ordered around by this beauty, but he removed his soft leather gloves and began to wash. To his delight, the woman came to help him. "Two work faster than one," she explained. "So, what's your name?" asked Calarion. "Ashainnarya," she replied, scrubbing vigorously. Ashainnarya. A beautiful name. With shock, Calarion realized, he was in love! But I only just met her! I don't know her at all! he protested to his mind. But his mind refuted his feeble protests. "Who are you?" Ashainnarya asked. Grinning wryly, he said, "Prince Calarion, commander of this army." Ashainnarya jerked in shock, dropping the just-washed cloth. Calarion's arm jerked out and caught it before it hit the ground. "You defeated the Lord Assassin." "Well, it was really the mage Teclis. He did the work. I just had to run him through." She bowed to him, awed. "Forgive me for this." "For what? It's been my pleasure helping here - though I must be back at the camp in a few short minutes, I can still wash a few more cloths while I'm here." He washed two cloths more before rising, gazing admiringly at Ashainnarya, and said, "I must go now." Ashainnarya said tremulously, "Thank you for your help." In a tone with equal uncertainty to her own, Calarion stammered, "Ahhh..do you mind if I..ahhh.umm.come to see you again?" His heart was beating. She smiled. "I'd love it."  
  
Tarthalion was sore. His rear end was stiff, like all the other elven riders'. They had been going at a torturous pace to try to catch up to Mortharor. Behind him stretched the two hundred horse he had brought with him. He only hoped it would be enough. Old bones creaked in him as the horses slowed. One of the faster horses was returning from its scouting. "Prince Tarthalion!" the elven rider said. "The White Tower lies just over the hills. It is under siege by the dark elves. There are about five hundred horse down there. It appears that the Sword-masters and the Loremasters have been able to hold them back so far." "They cannot hold against Mortharor. Pass the word along the column - we ride to the Tower now!" The horses pressed on, galloping now. They burst over the hills as the sun rose, turning the Tower golden. At its base they could see, like a wave of darkness, tides of dark elves. The High Elves covered the distance in short time, moving as fast as possible. Battle was soon joined. 


	12. Chapter 12

Cyeos was not pleased. The High Loremaster stood in the central chamber of the White Tower, one hand on the Heart of the Tower, surveying through it the course of the battle raging outside. Here stood a mage, sending torrents of wind at a dark elven force, buffeting them, making their scaled cloaks whip behind them. There a small force of sword-masters charged into a pack of dark elves with crossbows. Their blades flickered as they cleaved through the druchii as gracefully as any dancer. But in another place the assembled spears of the defenders snapped and withered under a blast of flame, and the screams of the grievously wounded filled his ears. And finally the old elf located who he had been searching for - the dark elven commander. One lone elf in pitch-black armor, swinging his two-headed halberd, he fended off a charge by the flying greatswords of the sword- masters. But a few swift blows, and the elite warriors were dead, their blood running into the churned up mud. The battle was not going well. And whenever he tried anything - showers of lightning, explosions of flame - then the bevy of skilled mages that had been brought to the assault would counter it! His foe had planned well. He had neutralized the mages. He was currently in the process of neutralizing the guards. And there was nothing that he could do about it. But then a flicker of air by him, and another was in the room. The loremaster Herulach. "What news?" snapped Cyeos. Herulach said, in a voice that was trying to contain its mirth, "Riders on the horizon." "More dark elves? How many of them do they think it takes to overwhelm us!" "Not Dark Elves. They bear the standard of Prince Tarthalion."  
  
Tarthalion brandished his old sword. Almost as old as he was, he laughed to himself, though in truth the blade was far older, dating from the time of Tathel Sapherion and Aenarion the Defender. His knees were clenched tightly around the speeding Aglaroch, and hands fumbled with the short shield. Behind him, the mass of his cavalry forces came down the hill. Before them, dark elves set their spears, cruel faces showing openly worry. The momentum was devastating. The force of the speeding horses and the light cavalry lances blasted straight through the spearmen. Blood streamed. The dying howled. A horse shrieked as it ran on to one of the spears. Tarthalion paid no note. His sword flickered, opening skulls and parting limbs. He was sickened by the slaughter, but continued for the necessity. The spearmen broke and fled. The cavalry pursued, pounding the warriors under steel-shod hooves. But there were more dark elves then that. Fanatical she-elven frothed as they swung at Tarthalion's men. Terrible riding lizards tore at the throats of his knights. But Tarthalion made steady progress. His shield was set and re-set, turning countless blows, while his sword made short work of attackers. Then suddenly Aglaroch gave a great cry, and fell. Tarthalion hit the ground with a grunt of pain, rolling so that he barely avoided being crushed by his steed. Before him stood Mortharor. The tip of his halberd was stained with Aglaroch's blood. Tarthalion stood. His sword pointed at Mortharor. Mortharor did not move. "So you are the commander now?" "I defeated your little trap at Tor Yvresse!" the older elf spat. "I am surprised. After that dismal effort at the pass, I'd have thought you'd be dead. That's what I'd do if you were under my command - kill you for that one." "Your men cried for you when they died. When they realized you'd abandoned them." Mortharor lunged. Tarthalion flung out his shield, and with a grinding of metal the attack went wide. "A mere sacrifice," the dark elf explained conversationally. "Two thousand men!" retorted Tarthalion. He swung. Negligently Mortharor parried on the shaft of his exotic weapon. "Two thousand men for your Prince Carus. I call it a fair exchange." "I'd call your head a fair exchange for Carus!" roared Tarthalion. His sword scythed as he pounded at his adversary. Mortharor blocked with a set of over-extravagant moves. "You must really learn to control your temper!" laughed Mortharor. "A pity you don't have the time to learn." With that, Mortharor began attacking in earnest. Tarthalion sweated as his sword and shield flew, keeping away the furious attack. Then the sky erupted in flame.  
  
The Heart of the Tower pulsed as Cyeos and Herulach stood, talking, by it. "Tarthalion's forces should be able to defeat the dark elves," Cyeos proclaimed confidently. "We are still outnumbered about two to one," Herulach cautioned. "Bahh! Besides," he added, "have you noticed something? The dark elven mages are busy with Tarthalion now. Now, I act." "What can you do?" Herulach snapped, irritated. "Watch your tone. I am still the High Loremaster." Cyeos paced around the rose laen pillar, caressing it lightly. "I am going to use this as a weapon." Herulach snorted, but his eyes were wild. "Use the Tower?" But.." Cyeos cut him off. "The Heart of the Tower was designed as a focus for the Winds of Magic. It can scry, or it can kill." The old High Loremaster extended his consciousness into the other realm that man called the Winds of Magic. The Winds swirled around him, welcoming him. Friend. Join us. The Loremaster felt them wrap around him, give him the power he'd always dreamt of. The power to raise mountains and to crumble them. The power of magic. Cyeos reached out with a psychic hand and laid it by his own real hand, strangely shadowed in this realm of truths and untruths. Then he sunk the spectral hand into the Heart of the Tower. Lights roared. Someone - Herulach - was shouting at him. But what were they to him? He shut his eyes. They were redundant. He could sense anything that moved, know it for what it was in less time than it took for his heart to beat. He was all mighty. Here he would destroy the Dark Elves, destroy Mortharor the Black, destroy even the Witch-King! He was supreme! Flames roared in the sky above the battle. Elves cried out in terror as the sun itself seemed to drop in the sky, to hover above them. The dark elven mages watched. "Now!" hissed Kethlis, eyes squinting up at the light. "Now we strike!" The warlocks began to draw upon their own power. This was the time they would destroy the Loremaster and achieve another of the Dreaded One's great goals. The flames in the sky came down like a fist. Elves screamed in terror, but when it lifted it left the scorched bodies of the dark elves only. Mortharor shouted - unsurprisingly the general had some form of resistance against the flames - but was ignored, his voice engulfed by the panic. The dark elves had a terrible discipline, but this was too much. They began to rout, as the flames roiled after them. Only a handful - Mortharor's guard and the sorcerers - remained. Mortharor howled defiance as he swung the halberd and cleaved down another warrior. The sorcerers struck. Black light flew up, forming a astral net around the torrent of flames. But the flames roared on. The web burst. The sorcerers screamed in pain. Inside the tower, Cyeos looked on with a murderous glee. The Heart of the Tower echoed his mind, shifting hues to a bloody red in strange torrents. Sweat poured down the old elf's body, and he trembled with the powers he was manipulating. Laughed as he felt another effort by the sorcerers to break him. There were twenty of them trying to stop him. Twenty ants trying to stop him With another thought the flames shot down, engulfing the sorcerers. Nine were caught. Some died instantly, other broke and fled, screaming in panic as the flames slowly withered their flesh. The sorcerers counterattacked again. Trying to destroy his mind. Cyeos laughed. What good would that do? He thought again. Nine of the sorcerers - melted. Their screams of pain were pleasing to his ears. As it should be. He was a god here, just as powerful as Asuryan. The High Loremaster screamed in triumph and prepared to obliterate the last three. His mind brushed one of theirs, and immediately he was filled with confusion. Rather than fear and awe and worship, this Kethlis felt instead grim satisfaction and triumph. Another blast came at his mind. Then suddenly, a small part of Cyeos knew. None of these attacks had had any effect - because they were not targeting him! They were targeting the Heart of the Tower! The Heart of the Tower burst into flames - physical and mental. Cyeos screamed in agony such as he'd never felt before, and fell away. As he fell he saw the white-hot stump which had before caressed the Heart of the Tower, and was repulsed by it. His hand had been burnt off up to half-way down his forearm. And his mind could not focus on anything. The strange blood-red flames washed the Heart of the Tower. Beneath, the column shifted, from rose to the foul red. There came a noise. Louder than anything the elf had ever heard. The Heart of the Tower had cracked. The elf screamed again. Outside the tower, the fires struck again, but this time there was no control to them. Kethlis and the last of the druchii warlocks died in the fires. And they churned through the ranks of blood-smeared high elves. They, too, fled from the strange destroyer. Then the flames died out. Charred corpses were lying everywhere on the field of battle. It was sickening. And from the Tower, everyone heard the shrill cry of supreme agony that echoed from Cyeos. 


	13. Chapter 13

It was an impressive sight, Arhaindir thought. The elf was sitting on his brown steed comfortably, looking at the force of infantry on his heels. Banners snapped proudly, and several of the elves were singing a rousing war-tune. And there were a lot of them, maybe two thousand. Ithilmar coats glistened, as did polished spear-tips, with the reflected light of the sun. Asuryan burned bright overhead, and surely that was a good omen. Besides, it must have been only half a day's marching left until they reached the White Tower to reinforce Tarthalion. Calarion rode by his side, on a dappled horse. The two bantered away lightly, discussing their lives before the invasion. With pride, Moonhand described his young daughter, Si'anelle to Calarion. Calarion was not really paying attention, though. For the last three days of marching, Arhaindir had been forced to handle the day-to-day logistics of the army. He bore it with a good humor, though, knowing Calarion's thoughts were constantly on Ashainnarya. He'd been seeing her at least once a day, and the older elf could tell his young friend was deeply smitten. Windfoal, Arhaindir's mount, snorted, and fastidiously picked her way around a muddy patch. Arhaindir smiled to himself. Who was he to begrudge Calarion his love? And his thoughts invariably returned to Isil'wen, his own lover. He decided lightly it would be a good day to take the noble Avelornian expatriate maybe some of those beautiful wildflowers they had been riding by when he saw her at the lunch-stop. He turned to Calarion, and explained all this. Calarion laughed and nodded, and so Arhaindir turned Windfoal and cantered out to where a patch blossomed, leaving Calarion alone with his thoughts of flawless skin and golden locks. After gathering two bunches of the flowers, one for Calarion to give to his lady and one for Isil'wen, the elf noticed the light was dimming, and spurred back to where Calarion was giving the orders to set up camp for the night. He pressed some flowers into Calarion's hand. "Give them to your lady friend!" he grinned, then rode off in search of Isil'wen. Calarion watched him go, then swung off his horse, pressing the reins into the grip of a camp follower. He set off at a brisk pace for where the healers were. Ashainnarya was waiting for him with a smile. He embraced her tightly, kissed her once, and then handed her the flowers. "They're beautiful!" the healer said. "They don't match you, though." Ashainnarya led Calarion into her tent. It looked plain, and comfortable. The elf lord stood, bemused, while Ashainnarya set down the flowers. "How was your day?" she asked, in that heart-breakingly beautiful voice. "I spent it all thinking about you," the elf lord admitted. "I spent the day thinking about you, too," the maiden admitted, and the two embraced again. Calarion lightly kissed her on the forehead as she said, "There's something I've wanted to tell you." "What, heart?" he said, and kissed her again. She reached up, pulled his head down, and planted her lips firmly on his. Time slowed for Calarion in a delightful manner. "I hope you die in agony," she said, and plunged his dagger into his gut. Calarion fell back with a shriek of pain, as Ashainnarya reached down and wiped his bloodied knife on his shirt. He looked at her with betrayed, heart-broken eyes. "Why?' he wheezed weakly. "Why?" "You killed my master," said the elf woman bitterly. "It's only fair that I kill you now." Calarion tried to speak again, but the tent flap burst open. Three warriors stood there, holding spears tightly. They took one look at their dying leader, another at the elf woman who held a bared knife, and realized the truth in a minute. Ashainnarya laughed. The first lunged at her, and she dodged gracefully, before striking blindly behind her. Not as blindly as it seemed, though, for it tore open the side of the elf's neck. The next spearman was cannier, and approached with his friend. One feinted, and then the other struck at the small weapon, flinging it into the flowers. Ashainnarya ignored it. She grasped both spears quickly, and agilely vaulted over them, so that she was standing between the two. Two quick blows with stiffened hands, and there were two more bodies on the floor. Ashainnarya turned back to Calarion. Somehow, the elf lord was still alive, despite the tremendous amount of blood that had gushed from him, staining his tunic deeply. He reached out a hand. "You killed Darsil," she reiterated, "the Lord Assassin. My master." The Assassin knelt besides Calarion, holding the knife in her hands again. The honey-blond hair tickled his face as she delicately placed the knife by his throat. "Good-bye, my love," she said quietly. Then again the flap burst open, and a booted foot struck Ashainnarya's hand with brutal force. The assassin looked up, into the furious eyes of Arhaindir Moonhand. His runesword was out, and balanced lightly under her chin. Ashainnarya stood quickly, backing away to give herself more space. Arhaindir followed, face contorted. "You would attack an unarmed woman?" she taunted. Arhaindir laughed. "A druchii assassin is never unarmed," he retorted, and lunged. "How true," she said, and flung herself under the blade. She rolled once and came to her feet by the shadow warrior, hands flying in a deadly attack. Moonhand was fast, though. He swung up his sword and parried, though with incredible skill the assassin kept her ands on the flat, so that she was never cut by the sword. Ashainnarya kicked out, snapping her foot out in an impossible arc that caught Moonhand under the chin. He grunted in pain. In the same move, Ashainnarya tugged the sword from his hands. Struck once, opening Moonhand's shoulder in a spray of blood. Lined up the killing blow. Then she saw Calarion. Somehow, with a supreme force of will, he'd forced himself to his feet. In his hands, the discarded knife. She tried to parry the blow, but failed. The knife sunk between her breasts, causing blood to well. Calarion held her as the light faded from her eyes. "I loved you," he said. She nodded. Now, at the end, she seemed weak, helpless. "And I hated you," she murmured. Then she jerked one last time and was gone Delicately, he laid out the corpse on the sleeping mattress. "Sleep in peace, and awake in joy." Then his eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he collapsed on the body of the woman he had loved.  
  
Half a day's march away, two armed camps sat and glared at each other. Tarthalion was tired. His glorious force was decimated, less than a quarter its original size after the strange fireball had exploded amongst them. And his spies assured him that it was just the same in the dark elven camp. While unfortunately Mortharor had survived, the battle had degenerated into a standoff. Neither side had the resources to continue fighting. Now, whichever side received reinforcements first would win. "Come soon, Calarion," he murmured. "What did you say?" asked Tarran Angedhel, his lieutenant, politely. "Eh? Oh, I just hoped that Calarion would arrive soon. We need those extra troops." Tarran nodded. "How is Cyeos?" said Tarthalion suddenly. Tarran's face grew mournful. "Terrible. Oh, he'll survive, but his mind.gone. Not insane. He's just a vegetable. Loremaster Belannaer has taken over until they can decide on a new High Loremaster, but that could take a month or more to decide. Until that time, the mages are effectively out of the war." "Damn!" swore Tarthalion bitterly. "We may have saved the Tower, but what good's it?" Then another elf pushed his way into the tent, frantically. "Prince Tarthalion? Bad news!" "What is it now, man?" "Reinforcements have arrived for the dark elves. Maybe half a thousand corsairs." Tarthalion's face was sad. "Give the word. We've no choice but to retreat." 


	14. Chapter 14

The old elf surveyed the lands from where he stood shivering, on the walls of his ancestral estate. Aged bones creaked, but still he wore tightly strapped on the ancient armor that was the birthright of the line of Tathel Sapherion, and his hand tightly clutched Sapherion's sword. Outside, great mountains and broad plains were lightly dusted with featureless white, the first snows of winter. A small forest, also whitened, but too small to shelter the attack when it came. And somewhere out there was Mortharor the Black, and his ten-thousand men, to Tarthalion's maybe two thousand. Certainly, Mortharor had left some at the siege of the White Tower, but still the defenders would be outnumbered two to one. And with Mortharor's wits, he could expect worse than that to come. "My prince," came a voice behind him. Tarthalion turned, and smiled wearily. "Tarran. Have you come to see the end up here too?" Tarran Angedhel frowned. He was a young elf maybe, but mature beyond his meager hundred and fifty years. His skill and dedication had earned him the role of commander of the siltholrim, his bodyguard. "Don't be defeatist. We can win this, surely!" reprimanded Tarran. Tarthalion scowled. "Like we won at Dagorannon? Or at the Tower? Or that wonderful little debacle at Tor Yvresse?" "We won at Tor Yvresse." "Did we? We lost Carus and most of our defenders to defeat slave troops and a token force of druchii. All we achieved was to kill the Lord Assassin Darsil. The spirit has gone out of the army since." He didn't say it. They both knew what he was thinking. Since the death of the Everqueen, their spiritual leader, the moral of the troops had been broken. A quaver - that was the only was to describe it - appeared on the edge of the field. Sunlight reflecting irregularly. Tarthalion pointed. "What was that?" he hissed. The two stared. Again came the strange flicker, repeated over a vast area. A flicker, from sunlight reflecting off mail coats. "Ready the forces!" snapped Tarthalion. "The Dark Elves are upon us!" Tarran Angedhel did not waste time with words. He just spun and sprinted into the courtyard. Well-nigh immediately the last battered troops of his cavalry force prepared, though now all on foot. Spearmen and archers lined the walls, holding weapons at the ready. Other elves began loading the heavy quarrels into the bolt throwers, and targeting the dark elves as the flicker moved forward. And the last group drew their keen blades and surrounded Tarthalion, led by bleak-faced Tarran Angedhel. His bodyguard. Their presence reassured him. Meanwhile, the scourge had moved into view, clad in white and gray for camouflage. It was a good thing he'd seen them. If not, they'd never have noticed them until the dark elves were under the walls. But still, Tarthalion did a quick estimate and realized that there were about four thousand of them, as expected. If only Calarion's infantry could appear! He'd expected them long ago. Two thousand men would bring this up to an even battle, and then maybe he could win. But there was no point waiting on dreams. Obviously, Calarion's force had been halted, probably ambushed and killed by that damnably clever Mortharor. There would be no reinforcements. No reinforcements. No reprieve. This was it. A thousand years of life would end on this day. So be it. The dark elves were almost in range of the bows. Hurriedly, Tarthalion issued his last orders. "Remember, our goal here is to sell our lives as dearly as possible. No shooting unless you can cripple or kill. Don't waste yourselves. If we do this properly, we might be able to escape alive. But don't count on it. Say your last prayers now." The nodded. They had all volunteered for this last stand. Tarthalion looked skyward. Soon, Ysmaine. Soon, I'll be with you again. Not long now, and I'll be with you and Calarion forever. The dark elves were in range. Without need for orders, bowstrings snapped. A rain of arrows flew into the dark elves, felling several. The bolt throwers answered, spitting heavier bolts which churned through druchii, turning the new snow red. Many dark elves were down, screaming in death and agony. Many more marched on still. Another volley, and more dark elves fell writhing. And a third. Then bows were dropped in favor of swords as the druchii were under the walls. Ladders were pressed against the walls, and a returned fire from the vicious short-range crossbows came. Several of the defenders fell, clutching small barbed bolts that were firmly planted in throat or gut. Spearmen kicked at the ladders, sending warriors plummeting. But there were many more which kept their balance, and the foe was on the wall. The first warrior on the top was neatly struck by a scything blade, sending head and body back in their own separate directions. Then the second dark elf reached the wall, and struck with a spear. The bloodied sword fell from nerveless hands. Dark Elves were swarming on to the wall now, and swords flew viciously. Blood flew. The cries of the dying filled the air. Tarthalion watched with a strange detachment. Dark elves swarmed around him, and his bodyguard, and he struck neatly, killing his attackers. But this was not his fight. Another dark elf appeared over the wall now. Exquisitely crafted black plate, the horned skull-helm, and the vicious double-bladed halberd. Mortharor. This was his fight. "Leave me," Tarthalion said calmly to Tarran and the rest of the bodyguard. Tarran looked shocked. Tarthalion cut off his comments. "This is a foe beyond you. Only I can face him. Go - fight an enemy you can prevail against." Tarran nodded, but his face showed his fear for Tarthalion. Tarthalion ignored him. Holding shield and sword before him, he strode to before Mortharor. Confident. Confident that this was where he would die. "I am Tarthalion Sapherior, rightful ruler of Saphery, descendant of Tathel Sapherior the Spellblade, and I challenge you," he said. Mortharor did not move. "I am Mortharor, General to the Dreaded One Malekith the Witch-King, son of Graidel who was General before me, and I accept your challenge." With that they attacked. Mortharor began the assault, spinning his halberd so that the bladed sides were constantly flying in beyond the ability of a normal warrior to parry. Tarthalion's brow crinkled with concentration as sword and shield flew to ward off the ceaseless attacks. Mortharor ended suddenly, bringing the spear in for a thrust. Tarthalion hopped aside and rammed his shield in, to drive the blow wide, before lunging with two tight swings. Mortharor pulled back the halberd, and the sword struck the steel haft. Mortharor attacked as if using a quarterstaff. Tarthalion blocked. Tarthalion swung an intricate attack. Mortharor picked off the blows with ease. The two ceased their duel for a minute, panting with exhaustion. The battle itself around them had faded - for them. Their concentration was complete. They eyed one another with new respect, as well as the enmity that had always been present. The respite ended. Mortharor lunged. Tarthalion moved too slowly. The blade struck the chain and plate coat of Sapherion. The armor buckled under the pressure, but did not give. Tarthalion counterattacked, and drove the point of the sword deep though the plate into Mortharor's side. The dark elf hissed in pain. Blood spurted from the wound. But the attack had left him open, and Mortharor struck again. Had he the speed of Calarion, Tarran, or any elf in his prime, he might have been able to dodge in time. He might have been able to parry. But Tarthalion could not move fast enough. The halberd struck the side of his helm, hard. Tarthalion staggered, dizzy and pained. Mortharor struck one last time. This time, he was not aiming for any armour, He aimed for Tarthalion's bared neck. The old elf made no move or cry as Mortharor tore his throat out. There was a spray of blood, before, every so slowly, the body fell back, landing so that Tarthalion's corpse was gazing up at the heavens. The expression on his face was not one of pain or defeat, but of peace. 


	15. Chapter 15

The death of Tarthalion Sapherion marked the end of an era in the invasion of the Dark Elves. Tarran Angedhel, the lieutenant of the dead hero, led the retreat, and soon Mortharor held the old manor house. With Calarion's wounds from the assassin Ashainnarya keeping him from leading his demoralized troops, there was no real resistance to Mortharor, and so the dark elf was able to sweep on. In one week he finished the attack, and Saphery and Yvresse were conquered. Not all of the provinces, though. The White Tower still resisted its siege, despite the insanity of the High Loremaster Cyeos. And in northern Yvresse the Felix Legion fought on, led by Prince Ikarus, despite being driven from Tor Yvresse. Mortharor met with the armies led by Malekith the Witch-King, who had swept through Ellyrian and Tiranoc with ease, due to the Dreaded One's powerful magics. Mortharor began preparing from the Sapherior estate the construction of a fortress from which he could stage the final assault - the attack on the Phoenix King in Lothern. With his fall, the war would be over once and for all. But not all was lost for the High Elves, for whom two last hopes remained. In Avelorn, Tyrion and Alarielle still fled from the assassins of Vuthil. Were the Everqueen to escape their pursuit, it could restore the fighting spirit of the High Elves. And in Saphery, the healed Calarion pressed on to meet with the survivors of the last stand.  
  
The elf dozed lightly. He ignored the small branches that pressed uncomfortably into his back through a fur cloak, ignored the slush that ran into his good leather boots, ignored the winds that although slight bit like a mountain cat. He slumbered lightly and peacefully instead. The land had changed too. The woods where he was leaning were liberally dusted in snow, and the few fallen leaves and fallen twigs that typically made up the forest floor were obscured by a light blanket of white. Winter was definitely upon Ulthuan. And the elf dreamed, leaning against the trunk of an ash tree, his tall spear propped up beside him, of a time before the war, of peace and serenity and a beautiful elfwoman who welcomed him with outstretched white arms. It was a pleasant dream. A sound, the sound of bells, echoed through the trees lightly, tantalizingly. But with the white arms around his neck, the slumbering elf failed to notice. The bells grew louder, and noise joined them, the light stamp and nervous whinny of a horse. The elf's eyes snapped open. The elfwoman vanished. Standing swiftly, he threw back the fur and grasped his spear with both hands, daring the rider to come. The rider came into sight gradually through the mostly leafless foliage. He rode a fine white steed with highly polished ithilmar barding. He himself was clad in an ithilmar breastplate, with chain links guarding forearms and upper legs. The white cloth under the armor was of a thicker material than normal, to ward off the chill weather. His only weapon was a fine-looking longsword hung at his hip. The elf with the spear straightened, bringing the spear up to his side. He smiled happily - the first smile in the week since Tarthalion's death. "Prince Calarion!" the elf hailed the rider. "We feared the worst!" Calarion slowed the horse with a touch and a light word, and slid to the ground. "Prince Calarion?" he said. "Not until my father is dead!" Then he looked at the elf's face, and his jaw dropped. "No," he said in barely a whisper. "No." The elf nodded slowly. "I'd best take you to see Tarran Angedhel," he said to the grieving Calarion. "He'll tell you more." Calarion did not move. "I said, I'd best." the elf said again. This time Calarion was looking at him. All signs of mourning were swept from his face. "Yes. Take me to Angedhel." He swung back on the horse as the scout moved to in front. "This way, my lord."  
  
Long ago, in the time of Caledor the First, the lord of Saphery faced a similar problem to the one fought that day. As every elf knows, that was the time when Malekith had been revealed as a servant of the Chaos his father had given his life fighting against, and tried to claim the Phoenix Crown for himself. A war spanning all Ulthuan had sprung up then, as well. The lord, Erathiel Sapherior, son of the famed Tathel Sapherior, had sheltered the mages of Ulthuan from attack by the Witch-King's servants. He decided not to use any conventional hiding hole, as the agents of Malekith would discover any cave or magically hidden building. And so Erathiel came across a tree which had been hit directly by lightning. The branches had been blasted away, so that only a stump remained, hollowed out by the bolt. Erathiel noticed, and hit upon a plan. He excavated a cavern under the tree, and hid there. As matters turned out, it was a small improvement, fooling the dark elves but not the magical assassin that Malekith sent upon the failure of his agents. The group of mages was only saved by the intervention of Elhaldrin the Blade-Singer. Since then, the subterranean hideaway had been maintained by the Sapherior line, and proved quite effective against typical opponents. It was here that Tarran Angedhel had fled after the rout from the estate. Calarion left his horse in the natural cave used as a stable, and then picked his way through the snow with the scout until he reached the tree in question. A quick motion opened the door on its trunk. "I've always wondered," said the scout, "how that tree looks so life-like." Calarion said, "It is. Magic." "Ahhh," the other nodded, as he followed Calarion inside, and down the rope that led to their hideout. At the bottom, in a large, earthy room roofed by roots, elven warriors murmured to each other quietly. Their voices cut off when they saw the new arrival. Calarion looked at them, mildly unnerved by the silence. "My lord!" came a voice from the rear, as Tarran Angedhel pushed his way forward to Calarion and the scout. He knelt. "My lord, I have failed." Calarion put his hand on Tarran's shoulder. "Tell me everything." So Tarran told him of the battle at the White Tower, how Cyeos was driven mindless, how the wild magics ravaged the high elves, how the advent of allies for Mortharor. Calarion spat. "Mortharor!" he cried. "I hate that name!" .how the advent of allies for Mortharor forced the high elves to retreat, how they had made their final stand at the Sapherion manor house. "We were outnumbered two to one," Tarran said hoarsely. "Then Mortharor himself appeared, holding his strange double-headed halberd. We would have fought him, but Tarthalion told us not to. He fought Mortharor himself." "He died then, didn't he?" Calarion said. Tarran nodded. "I think he knew that Mortharor could kill all of you. What he did was save all your lives," Calarion ruminated. Tarran nodded. "A more heroic elf I have never met." "True." He paused. "You cremated the body with proper reverence, I expect." Tarran swallowed. "We would have, Prince Calarion, had we the body." "Where is Tarthalion then?" he said lightly, a lightness which Tarran could tell was forced. "We couldn't retrieve it. Mortharor has the body. And your armor, and your sword." Calarion's eyes blazed. "I am sick of hearing how Mortharor has beaten us here, Mortharor has beaten us there! Now you tell me Mortharor has killed my father, seized my ancestral estates, and still has the body and the ancestral armor and sword! He cannot be as good as everyone says he is!" Calarion drew his dagger. Tarran reared back, startled. "Witness," Calarion growled. He pushed out his arm, and then slashed once with the knife, trying not to think about the last time he used it. Blood welled through the light cut to the surface. "By Khaine the Bloody Mawed, by Loec Shade-Dancer, I swear vengeance against Mortharor the Black. My blood or his. That is how it must be." The elflord hissed. "Now, I will go to my estates. I will win back what is mine. And I will kill Mortharor the Black!" 


	16. Chapter 16

The elf laughed. "That's a good one," he said to his friend. "But I've got a better one. Listen." Calarion shrunk back, behind the tree, praying the two scouts had not noticed him. ".and then I stuck his guts to the ground with a stake." Calarion's face blackened, and his hand dropped to his sword, clutching tightly under the thick leather glove. The dark elves were laughing about how they'd slaughtered his friends. He let his hand fall. Tempting as it was to strike the two down, there was no way he could kill both without their making a noise. Hard as it was, his mission, finding the sword and armor, finding Tarthalion's body, and killing Mortharor, was tantamount. He was more important alive than dead. And so Calarion forced himself to stand totally still as he listened to the atrocities, until the two could no longer be heard. Then he slipped forward as stealthily as possible. Not very stealthily, alas. He was a warrior, not a thief or spy. He'd just have to hope for the best. He slipped on through the trees, until he reached a small glade, which marked the edge of the trees. A large bush sat right at the edge, and so the elflord crawled over and looked beyond from the cover of the bush. He did not like the site. The old banner of the sword and sun that was the emblem of the Sapherior line was gone, torn down and destroyed most likely. A great sorrow, for that standard was many thousands of years old, even slightly enchanted to maintain its condition. But gone now. The bat-winged skull of Mortharor defied him now. And outside the fortress, the dark elven army was camped. No command tent, though. Mortharor would be inside the fortress. A good thing. A hand dropped on Calarion's shoulder. "Here now, what're you about?" A dark elf scout. With a single desperate move, Calarion spun, tugging his sword from its scabbard and striking with a single breath. The shade yelped in shock, before the scything blade tore through soft flesh between shoulders and neck. The head flew through the air, and landed with a thump, rolling once until it stopped at the base of a tree. The body collapsed. The snows turned red. Calarion looked around quickly. Had anyone heard? His heart hammered viciously inside him, his pulse sped. But no more dark elves appeared. No one had heard the short cry. He cleaned the ithilmar on the snow, before hauling the body under the bush. The bloodstained snow was harder, but he kicked some more snow over it and hoped no one would look too hard. Then the white-cloaked warrior moved off again.  
  
He found it before long. A pile of boulders, defying probability by stacking one on top of another, three high. Calarion darted to the stones, throwing quick glances around to make sure there were no watchers. None. Good. Then he stripped the glove off his right hand. Goosebumps rose on the skin, as he laid the bared palm on to the top stone. There was no noise at all as the bottom-most stone picked itself up and levitated in the air, the two other stones still balanced perfectly on top, over a set of rungs leading straight down. A spell of a Loremaster a long time ago keyed this entrance to any of Sapherior's line. No other could use it. Calarion removed his hand, and put his glove back on, glad for the extra warmth it gave him. Then he clambered down the rungs awkwardly, the rocks lowering above him so that it blocked off the entrance. The rung ladder did not go very far. Soon Calarion was standing at the bottom. He stood, taking his bearings. As he recalled it, the passage led to the bowels of the castle to the dungeon. The 'torture chamber', never used, was actually no more than the entrance to the passage. From there, he would have to look. It was a fair bet that Mortharor would be on the second floor, in the lord's chambers, but as for the location of Tarthalion's corpse there was no telling. He continued to another of the stone-locks, and opened it. Again, not a nice idea. Of course the dark elves had decided to use the chamber of horrors for the first time ever. And used it plentifully. Blood stained the floors indelibly. A high elven warrior - one of the siltholrim knight bodyguard - was slumped on a table, mouth opened and face scrunched in the very essence of agony. His arms were stained with blood as if all tendons had been slit neatly. The eyes were red holes, having been gouged out. The tongue could not be seen. Calarion was sickened to his stomach. On the fields of battle, he'd seen many horrifying sights. He'd seen men disemboweled before his eyes, seen blood and brains spilled. But this casual violence, for no reason other than causing pain, was totally different. It was a stubborn mind that held his last meal inside him still. He swung open the door, sword in hand, ready to strike if any dark elves were there. But none stood, and the warrior moved out from the room of blood and gore. He found himself in a small, dimly lit corridor, flanked on each side by cells. A short flight of stairs at the other end led up to a firm oak door, which he knew would lead towards the main courtyard. He moved on, looking into the cells as he passed. The sight was again disgusting. The first cell to his left had been converted into a morgue, in which dismembered elven corpses were heaped. A small cloud of flies circled around the sickly scent of dead flesh. Calarion swung open the door, one hand covering nose and mouth to keep away the smell, and keep in his food. It was possible, however unlikely, that Tarthalion would be in here. So he shifted the corpses one by one. None were Tarthalion. Calarion's stomach finally rebelled, and he emptied his stomach over the corpses. This is what I am fighting for, then. Not just resisting an invasion, but to save the elves a fate like this. He swatted at the flies, before returning to the corridor. A sound. The door creaked open. Sunlight lay in a brand along the stones. Calarion turned, and darted into the cell opposite the morgue. At the top of the stairs were two men. One was dragging the other over his shoulder. The torturer and his latest victim. Calarion hissed under his breath. This one he could not let pass. The dark elf had to die by his blade. The blade in question was readied in his hand. The torturer and the high elven warrior staggered past into the room of horrors. Calarion waited, and then sneaked to the door. It flew open, from the inside. The dark elf stood there, dragging the old corpse behind him. He yelled in surprise, and instinctively pulled the body before him as a shield. A good thing for him, as Calarion struck with righteous fury, shearing through the corpse. Entrails pooled on the floor. The dark elf dropped the corpse, and jumped back, fumbling for his arms. Calarion swung again, and the dark elf hopped back again. Calarion jumped over the body lightly, and confronted his now-armed foe. Sword in one hand. In the other, a whip. That could be difficult - a skilled whip-user could pull his sword right out of his hands. He'd have to hope for the best there. The dark elf lunged. Calarion spun away, letting the sword fly in a circle that would end in the torturer. His foe stepped back and parried. The whip snapped, and Calarion yelped in pain as it tore a furrow in his forehead. There was no way he could parry the thing. He swung again, attacking repeatedly, not letting his foe regain the initiative. Swords flew. Calarion muscled his foe's sword wide, not letting him attack with the whip. Then he struck once. The dark elf's sword flew into a perfect parry. It would have been a perfect parry if Calarion had been aiming for he dark elf's heart. Instead, his longsword cleaved through the whip-arm in a shower of blood. The dark elf screeched in agony. Calarion struck again, knocking the sword away, and again, mashing the torturer's nose and flinging him to the ground. "Now what?" the dark elf sneered. "You going to torture me now?" Calarion shook his head. "I am no shadow elf." Then with a last blow he struck the elf's head off. Blood spurted, and the corpse dropped to the ground. He left the body where it lay and went over to the captive Elf. The elf cowered in fear. "It's me. Calarion - Prince Calarion." But the high elf did not recognize him. Half drugged and half dead, he gibbered in fear. Calarion sighed. Then the captive spoke, forcing the clouds out of his mind. "Calarion?" he croaked. "Yes. I've come to save you - find Tarthalion's body - kill Mortharor." "Asuryan bless you if you can kill that one. He killed Tarthalion, you know." Calarion nodded. "Where is the body?" The elf coughed. Bloody spittle stained Calarion. He ignored it. "Mortharor dismembered it and put it on spikes in the courtyard." "What about the armor, the sword?" "Mortharor has them. He intends to give them to the Witch-King." Calarion said, "What do you want me to do about you?" "Could you kill me, please?" Calarion jerked. "Kill you? Why?" "I'm dying now. I've already been tortured. The pain! I want an end to it." Calarion's left hand clutched the right hand of the elf soldier. His right hand drew the belt knife. One quick blow, and the elf was dead. Calarion stood, murmured the traditional farewell, "Sleep in peace, and awake in joy." Then he began the next thing he had to do. He rapidly stripped the dead dark elf, and pulled the druchii tabard and cloak on. A disguise would let him walk freely. He exited the dungeons, and entered a broad sun-lit corridor that flanked the courtyard. Recalling the dead elf's words, he chose not to look out any of the broad windows to his left. He had fixed in his mind images of Tarthalion, and had no desire to see the horror of his father's dismembered body. Besides, retrieving the corpse now would prove to be impossible. "Never fear, father," he said to himself. "Your body will be cremated as usual when we have re-taken this place." He walked on, keeping his head down with a hood over it, praying that none of the dark elven warriors who strolled past would notice his flowing golden hair and become inquisitive, for being of the northern Nagarythi stock, druchii had dark hair tones. But fortunately none did notice. He made his way up to where Mortharor's chambers would be with ease. When he reached them he looked around to make sure there were no dark elves watching. There were none, so with a swift move he drew his keen blade and flung open the door. The room was empty. Good. He moved in, keeping his sword bared nonetheless, and shut the door gently behind him. The room was quite large, as befitted the bedchamber of one of the most important families in Ulthuan. Sunlight poured in from a huge glass window that looked out over the icy wood. The bed itself was quite impressive, made from the finest woods from Avelorn carved into impressive images of famous battles of the line of Sapherion. Another minor enchantment linked it to the mind of the possessor, so it showed their glories. Previously Calarion recalled it had shown images of Tarthalion and Carus battling human raiders. Now, linked to Mortharor, it showed scenes of terror and slaughter. Calarion picked out the image of Dagorannon, and even a tiny version of himself. He shuddered. Somehow, more even than everything else, the corruption of this seemed to show the sign of the dark elves. It shivered his skin. And over from the bed lay, gleaming beautifully, the golden corselet of plate and mail that was his by birthright. And lying on it, in a plain leather sheath, the ithilmar blade of generations past. His heart leapt at the glory of them. Again, Calarion removed his tabard and ithilmar coat, donning the new chainmail. He could feel the beautiful craftsmanship, for it felt as light as his tunic did, and about as encumbering, and it fit perfectly. Now indeed he could believe he was Prince Calarion. With trembling hands he took the helm with its wings of eagle feathers, and placed it on his head. Picked up the plain leather scabbard and with no noise pulled forth his sword. It glinted mysteriously in the light, ithilmar and silver with a golden inlay. He looked at himself in a large silver mirror, and smiled grimly at the sight of himself. Indeed he was Prince Calarion now. Now he could take on Mortharor surely! "What." The word disrupted Calarion's thoughts, and he spun. In the doorway stood a dark elf holding a scroll in one hand. A messenger evidently. The messenger dropped the scroll and drew his sword. "High Elf!" he bellowed. "Damn!" cried the Prince, and he swung his new blade. An arc of beautiful gold, and the messenger's blood was staining the carpet. But the damage had been done, and there was no escape now. Dark elves entered the room, brandishing spears and swords. Calarion danced amongst them, his blade flying. They screamed in pain, and died in his wake. Now only one dark elf still stood. This one was clad differently, in full black plate mail, complete with horned death-mask, holding a double-headed halberd from which the stains of blood could never be removed. Calarion's sword lowered. "Mortharor," he whispered. Mortharor bowed. "And you would be.Calarion, of course." Calarion's sword snapped up. "You killed my father. You killed Tarthalion." "Yes, I suppose I did," Mortharor mused. "I'll kill you now." "If you can," said Mortharor laconically. "Tell the truth, I'm surprised to see you here. I'd have thought that Ashara could have killed you - Ashainnarya, I mean. That's what she called herself. She must have been awfully annoyed at that, what with you killing her lover and all." Calarion hesitated. "What do you mean?!" "Ashara's lover was Darsil, the Lord Assassin. You killed her love. So she killed yours. Hmmm?" Calarion roared out, "And I kill you!" He attacked wildly. Mortharor parried easily. Weapons locked, and with a simple flick of his arms he flung Calarion to the ground. "Things aren't going well for you, are they?" Calarion came to his feet as Mortharor advanced. "I nearly had you killed at Dagorannon, but you escaped me there. Then you survived fighting the assassins Ashara and I arranged. They should have been able to kill you, but they only killed that old fool Carus. I was surprised. Then you even managed to kill Darsil. That one annoys me. He was useful. You survive Ashara, despite the odds, and now you're here." He continued, "I've always said the gods love me. Now they prove it - by letting me kill you myself." And he attacked, viciously. But Calarion was fueled by his hatred, and his own blade flew in, parrying until the noise was just one single scrape of metal on metal. He clutched the sword with both hands, face contorted in anger and concentration. Mortharor hissed and somehow the halberd doubled in speed. Calarion parried, ducked, and slipped out from the attack. Mortharor spun to face him, and Calarion ducked. The swing struck a post on the bed, shearing straight through it. Calarion released his left hand from the hilt of his sword and drew his old sword. Then with a yell he attacked. Swords flew swiftly, as the enraged elf rained blows down. Now Mortharor struggled to parry the attacks. Mortharor slipped. He darted out of the way, and again the battle returned to a stalemate as both attacked and parried easily, circling in the small chamber. But Calarion knew he could not keep this up for long. His anger was fading, replaced by a great exhaustion in his flickering arms, while Mortharor showed no sign of tiring. Mortharor attacked again. Calarion parried, left, right, left, and then spun, both sword flying in an offensive arc as he moved. Mortharor had hacked down another post of the bed. With a shriek, the huge top of the bed snapped off from the two remaining columns, falling at where Calarion was standing. He ran backwards, and it smashed down in front of him. Had he been slower it would have crushed his skull. Mortharor vaulted over the wood, landing with feet spread atop it. His halberd howled. But Calarion was faster. His old sword snapped out, catching Mortharor's right leg. While it lacked the force to penetrate the armor, it made the dark elven general stumble. Immediately Calarion rammed forward with his other blade. Mortharor parried - slightly - so that instead of impaling him, the blow simply struck his shoulder. The magnificent sword hit the plate mail, and kept going, driving completely through the dark elf's shoulder. Calarion jerked it out, and blood flew. Mortharor fell back off the ruins of the bed-cover, somehow landing on his feet. He grasped the halberd in one hand only, lashing with it as he fell. It caught Calarion's leg-guards and made the high elf fall also. Mortharor rose first, blood streaming from the wound in his shoulder. He lashed at the downed elf, who dodged. The carpet and even the stone beneath was cleaved by the power of the blows. Once. Twice. Calarion rolled to his feet, holding only the ancestral sword now. For all of Mortharor's wound, the dark elf was still active, while Calarion himself felt at the verge of unconsciousness. Quite simply, he could not win. Mortharor swung the halberd. Calarion dodged, and then played his last desperate card. He ran into, and then through, the glass window. He could see Mortharor's skull-helmet glaring at him as he hurtled down two stories. Then with a crump! he landed on the soft snow, dazed and pained. With a force of will he forced himself to his feet. If he stayed here, he was dead. He had to run, for there would be dark elves after him. Calarion began to run.  
  
Mortharor watched as Calarion limped off as fast as he could go. One black- armored hand clutched the wound the accursed high elf had given him. Sometimes the appearance of strength was as important as strength itself, he thought wryly. What would have happened if the high elf had known that Mortharor could barely move after that terrible blow? He slumped down weakly on the wreckage of the bed, not caring as his blood mixed in with the coverlet. A dark elf stood before him. "Lord Mortharor, the high elf has escaped." "Send a patrol after him. I want him, dead or alive," said Mortharor. The commander turned to go. "Oh, and," said Mortharor, "send me a healer." The dark elf bowed and hurried out the door. 


	17. Chapter 17

Calarion ran. He was long past the point of exhaustion, past the point of pain. His legs and feet, which before - he could not recall when - had made him wish to fall over and die in peace, now seemed just as painful, but as if it was some other person's pain, with whom Calarion could sympathize with but not truly understand the agony of. They still throbbed somewhat, though. Again Calarion felt the futility of his run. He'd been going for an hour, maybe more. Granted, his new armor was not the slightest part encumbering, but after the nearly-fatal battle with Mortharor, it was not his action of choice. He turned his head. Behind him, he could hear the reason he was running. See it too, occasionally. Flashes of purple and black, sounds of boots crunching ice and of vague chatter. A dark elven patrol. Tired as he was, flight was the only option. If he had to fight them, he doubted he could even raise his sword to prevent them slaughtering him. He ran on. Feet moved steadily, not at the pace they had been going half an hour ago, but still moving. The sounds of the patrol drew closer. No warhounds or cavalry that he could hear. Good. Had they any faster-moving troops, then he would be doomed. As it was.. He drove the thought from his mind. Best not to dwell on the fact that he was, short of a miracle, dead. But it was stubborn. The thought did not leave. It remained, niggling, taunting. Unnerving him. Thoughts came to it of failure. His father had failed, had died for it. He'd failed, and would die for it. Ulthuan would fall. It was over for the High Elves. In a rational moment, Calarion would have rejected the idea as fatalistic, but he was too tired. They took root and grew into despair. Something caught at his leg. A branch. Thinking his black thoughts, he had paid no attention to the ground before him. He staggered, tried to keep his balance. Failed. With a sharp cry, Calarion fell, striking the ground hard. Snow sprayed, and his face stung from the shock of the fall. Clumsily he rolled over, and tried to stand. Failed. Too cold, too tired, Calarion could only lie where he'd fallen. An inglorious end. The raiders were upon him. Swords flashed as they approached the fallen Prince, and their intent was clear.  
  
The assault came at midday. Hosts of dark elven warriors, frothing in rage and in anticipation of the final revenge upon their kindred elves, hurled themselves upon the west wall of Lothern. The ground was churned into mud as they pounded towards the graceful marble walls, screaming. Siege ladders were set up, and the wall was scaled. On the top stood seven thousand members of the Lothern Sea Guard, the navy of Ulthuan. Their bowfire ripped into the assaulting druchii, sending many to their deaths and maiming many more. High elven warriors hurled alchemical fire down upon the scalers, killing few but setting many alight, and burning the ladders. Flaming warriors fled hysterically, causing chaos in the dark elven ranks. Still they came on. A mage appeared in the dark elven ranks, and gestured. A section of the wall began to melt, to the distress of those on top it. Some scrambled off the collapsing wall. More fell off, either to land stunned in Lothern's street, or to be hacked to death on the grassy field. A rumble, and the wall collapsed. Dark elven assault forces, wielding both sword and axe with murderous glee, poured into the breach. They were met by a tight wedge of sea guard. Many of the dark elves ran onto spear points, and more were forced on to them by the press from the massed ranks behind them. The sea guard abandoned their spears and drew keen elven blades. The melee was quick and furious, and blood soaked the ground from the dead and wounded. But when it was over the dark elves fell back from the thinned high elven ranks. Dark elves moved aside as a huge form came through their ranks. Forced onward by beastmasters, huge scaled monstrosities undulated across the field, each weaving its multiple heads. Arrows flew at them and impacted off their thick hide. A bolt thrower mounted on the wall joined in, blasting one of the things. Four thick bolts tore through the lead hydra's scales, leaving the maimed beast to thrash in agony until it finally died. But there were still three more of the sea-spawn, and a rider on the rearmost. The two riderless hydras struck the sea guard defenders, tearing and crushing them. A lucky spear blow drove through an eye, and then that hydra had but two heads left with which to kill the attacker. The sea guardsman, spear torn from his hand by the head's death-throws, was seized by the heads at once. He screamed as he was lifted into the air, but the sound soon ceased as the incensed beast tore his body in twain. The last hydra slowed, and the rider rose up. Sounds of fear could be heard on both sides of the battle, for here was Malekith, Witch King to the high elves, the Dreaded One to his own druchii, fell master of Naggaroth. With a gesture he sent lightning thundering into the battle again and again. After the fourth bolt, both hydras were dead, as were all the fifty-odd elves fighting them. The dark elves howled as they poured into the city. The fighting inside the city was deadly. In one street, the impassioned defenders flung back the assault completely. In another, the dark elves slaughtered their foes and began dousing buildings with flames. Fortunate it was indeed for the defenders that Malekith chose not to join in the assault further, and that he had killed the hydras for them. Fighting raged for an hour, and several blocks of buildings were destroyed, but finally the dark elven assault had been driven back. But the news was not all good, as mages brought reports that now fleets of dark elven ships had reached the great gates of Lothern. The great lighthouse had been destroyed, and the Emerald Gate also. Should the Sapphire Gate or the Ruby Gate be breached, then Lothern would indeed fall, for the defenders could not fight an enemy that entered into the large lagoon that was the heart of the city. More of the sea guard fought valiantly there, and the gates held - for now. But the outlook for Lothern was not rosy, especially as scouts reported the approach of another dark elven army from the east. It would reach them on the morrow. And the Witch-King smiled.  
  
There was a sound. Calarion didn't really care. He was, after all, going to be dead in a few seconds. The sound was that of hooves. A force of ten riders burst down upon the dark elven band. Lowered lances punched through dark elven skin. The downed Calarion watched in shock as the dark elves were quickly defeated by the riders. None of the riders fell. Then they turned and came to him. His mind finally cleared somewhat. Now he could focus, he recognized the horsemen. They were, of course, his bodyguard. Tarran Angedhel, and another elven knight he did not recall the name of, helped Calarion to his feet. "How did you know to rescue me?" Tarran said, "Lean on me," and the two hobbled over to the horses. As they went, the elf explained. "The rest of your army caught up to us, Arhaindir Moonhand and the rest. They had one of the Loremasters with them, Herulach. Calarion nodded. He knew the Loremaster Tarran spoke of. "He told us that we'd find you here, and told us of the danger you were in. we came with all haste." "Good timing," Calarion said weakly. They mounted, Calarion doubling on the horse of one of the knights, who kept him upright as they trotted along. Calarion told them of the grueling time: how he had learnt of Tarthalion's foul end, retrieved the armor, and fought with Mortharor. "Our spies tell us that Mortharor's left the palace. He and his dark elves have gone to attack Lothern." "Then our course is clear. We ride for Lothern as soon as the troops are assembled." 


	18. Chapter 18

Flames roared. They licked around the embattled metropolis of Lothern, sending black columns into the heavens, a signal for carrion-birds and the like. Of course, the worst predators were there already. The dark war banners of the druchii still clustered around the city, and the defense was desperate indeed. The Seaguard, Ulthuan's standing army, brilliantly trained and equipped, had used every tactic and ploy at their disposal, stratagems crafted by some of the finest military minds in the country. Dark elves had been slaughtered, maybe ten for every one of he defenders who fell. And still it was not enough. Now most of the edges of Lothern smoldered, turned into charnel piles by both armies. There was no time to retrieve and burn the dead as was customary. The lucky were incinerated in the fires of the assault. Most lay where they had fallen. And still the hordes of dark elves lay siege to the city. The Seaguard stood still, despite the deaths of half their numbers. The bolt throwers had been abandoned: there were barely enough bolts left for the spirited defense of the naval Sapphire and Ruby Gates from dark elven warships. They were rationed out there, and there simply were no longer enough bolts left for the rest of the Seaguard. And now, after a month of the siege, when hopes for a High Elven victory were at a low, the scrying of Lord Melenar of House Coraith, acting Commander of the Seaguard, revealed the approach of two armies from the east. The first, he reported with bitterness to the Phoenix Court, appeared to be a large force of dark elves. The second was Calarion's.  
  
On the first foothills that grew into the imposing granite Annulii Mountains, the great warhorst was camped. Three thousand elven warriors, flapping banners in the light breeze that blew off the ocean. "Lothern is just ahead," Calarion said to his fellows. The four commanders, Tarran Angedhel, Arhaindir Moonhand, Loremaster Herulach, and himself, strode amongst their troops, bolstering their spirits with their presence as they discussed plans. "The scouts told us that Mortharor arrived there maybe three days before us," Moonhand reminded. Herulach rose his own head and added, "Dangerous as this dark elf you've antagonized surely is, it's a fair bet that the Witch King himself is down there. He's the one we have to worry about." He looked down, saw that he had stepped in mud, and grimaced. His vanity was well known around the camp. "I disagree," Moonhand said. "If Malekith was down there, the city would have long since fallen. It's been under siege for a month or more as far as we know." "In any case, it's best to dwell on what we know is down there. Mortharor's taken his two thousand warriors there, and I'd guess there are maybe forty- odd thousand dark elves there already. So, maybe fifty thousand druchii to our twenty thousand. Unenviable, but winnable," Tarran, ever the practical one, said. "And Mortharor," Calarion said bitterly. "With him in charge, that's like another two thousand." Arhaindir stopped and put one hand on Calarion's shoulder, spinning him around. "Don't be pessimistic, Calarion. No matter how it seems, this isn't over yet by a long shot. And don't forget it." "What's the first step, Calarion?" Angedhel said. "Do we just charge into the dark elven rear?" "No. We need to coordinate with the commanders of the city." Tarran Angedhel's face went dark and guarded. "Whoever does that is signing their own death warrant. They'd have to get past all five thousand dark elves on this side of the city. None of our scouts could do that." Moonhand said, "I know." With frustration, Calarion said, "So who do we send then?" Moonhand replied slowly, "Me." Tarran exploded. "YOU? That's totally out of the question!" "Why? Do you think you'd have a better chance? "Don't be ridiculous, I'd be dead in two minutes! You're a commander, far too valuable to us! Besides, you have a wife!" "I have a child too, you know. But that changes nothing." "It changes nothing.Calarion, tell him he's a fool!" But Calarion was looking at Moonhand. "I agree, actually." Tarran looked to Herulach, but the Loremaster was engrossed with the mud splattered on his robes and paid no attention. Finally with a snort he looked back at Calarion. "All right, why him?" "Do you think you could do a better job? He has the best odds of anyone here of sneaking through the enemy lines. Besides, should he need to fight, he should be able to defeat any Druchii short of Mortharor." "My thoughts," Moonhand said. Tarran let out his breath in a gust, and retorted, "If death is so sweet to you, there are easier ways to pursue it!" But he was beaten and he knew it. Moonhand knew it too. He paced off calmly, holding the hilt of his sword tightly, through the camp. He turned and waved cheerfully, and then was lost to the high elves' eyes.  
  
The approach began easy. Moonhand's gray and green cloak blended in well with the rocky fields as he crawled closer to the burning city. But then he was under the noses of the dark elves, and his progress became tougher. He lay for a while, as dark elves ran by bearing siege ladders or bared blades forged of cruel Har Graef steel, head down with the voluminous cloak covering it. Eventually he could hear no sound of footsteps, and so he dared to lift the cloak slightly and gaze up. His daring was rewarded, for none of the dark elves were near him and he could dare to crawl forward a few metres. But now he could see the dark elves. He was a few paces away from the great pearl and marble wall of Lothern - at least he assumed it was pearl and marble, for most of it lay in ruins, breached in many places, and dark elves swarmed through those gaps to skirmish with the Seaguard defenders. Many corpses littered the broad paved avenue before him. And there was no way he'd sneak past here without being noticed. Time to run, he told himself, and pulled himself to his feet, strung bow in hand. The band of dark elven swordsmen spun as the first shaft struck the back of one of their own, knocking him spinning to the ground. Moonhand drew back the bow again, and fired. Another dark elf was flung off his feet by the force of the blow and clattered into the rubble. The other eight or so dashed for him, screaming. Arhaindir's Nagarythi blood began to boil. These were his natural enemy. They must die - all of them. His lip curled back into a sneer, and he howled a challenge as he tore his enruned longsword from his side. The dark elves came upon him like the tide. He swung wildly, cleaving the first in twain. Swords flew, and blood spattered the walls. Moonhand yelped as a blow bruised his ribs, nearly killing him. A dark elf shrieked in agony as Moonhand removed his sword hand and then his head. Moonhand's sanity returned to him. He could hear more dark elves coming, and had to get away. He had not the luxury of time. He swung the sword again, making the dark elves dart backwards. Then as they moved in again, he tensed his leg muscles and sprang. With one hand he gripped tight the sword as he flailed for a hold on the building by which he had been standing. He found one, an outcrop of wood, and hung there for a while as the dark elves cursed him. Then he hauled himself on to the roof. Below him several dark elves had sheathed their swords and were now trying to scale the building. The rest, though, far more dangerously, were readying their infamous hand crossbows. He ran along the roof and jumped to the next roof, barely clearing the gap. The dark elven warriors came howling after him. Three landed, one having to catch hold of the edge. The fourth missed, and landed with a crump! at the base of the building. Not dead, but incapacitated, thank Kurnous. The warriors drew their swords again. He sprang away, loping along the building, jumping over a large patch of roof that had been burnt away by the assault. There was a noise, and Moonhand screamed in pain. A bolt thudded into his waist, subtly changing the trajectory of his fall. He plummeted through the gap now. He tried to catch hold of the wall to slow his fall, but failed. Landed hard at the bottom. He did not look at his left leg, but knew that it was broken. He reached for his sword, and found it had fallen a few metres away. The three dark elves dropped down between him and it. He drew his broad-bladed hunting knife, and prepared for death. But barely conscious with the pain from his leg, he knew he would not last long. The dark elves collapsed. Shafts flew through the air, taking the druchii in the throats or chests. Turning, Moonhand could see a small force of Seaguard approaching, bows strung. "Thank Kurnous," he croaked, and then he fainted. 


	19. Chapter 19

A hawk cried. Calarion sat on a long smooth boulder, grimly cleaning his ancient sword. He'd cleaned the blood of the druchii scouts off it long ago, but he still wiped at it with the reddened cloth. He knew it was clean. Now, in his mind that had tempered by the losses of war, he could tell that this was anticipation, and that he would keep wiping ineffectually, even when the rag had been worn away entirely, until came the release of battle. He started briefly with the cry, jerking to his feet, blade swinging into a guard position. Then he laughed and relaxed, sagging back to his seat on the rock. The hawk cried again, circling overhead, and Calarion lazily traced its position in the sky with his eye. It circled again, then began to descend rapidly, directly for his head. With a startled exclamation, the high elf jumped back, dropping the rag altogether. It was soon blown away by the wind. The bird landed just before the rock, and Calarion could see a string bound a strip of parchment to its leg. The bird shrieked at him, and pulled at the string, tearing it easily. Then with the parchment lying lose, it cried again and was gone. The puzzled elf grabbed the note from midair as the wind began to carry it, too, out to the distant ocean. He unfurled it and began to swiftly scan the fine elven symbols traced upon the paper. Greetings, Prince Calarion, the note said. I am Melenar of House Coraith, acting commander of the Lothern Seaguard. Just recently my men rescued a servant of yours, one Arhaindir Moonhand. While quite wounded, he is in the care of our mages and I assure you that he is recovering well. Moonhand has said that you wish to coordinate a strike against the dark elven attackers. I direct you to strike the eastern flank at three of the clock. I shall organize my defenders so that, all going well, we can defeat this mob and begin to clear them from our lands once more. "What is it?" floated a voice from behind him, and he turned to see the Loremaster Herulach come striding down the fields towards him. As always, the Loremaster seemed to have some simple cantrip cast, for his sky-blue and white robes practically blazed, they were so clean of any speck of mud. Calarion said, "Could you have done that?" "Done what?" The Prince gestured vaguely in the direction the bird had gone. "I just received a missive from Lord Melenar of Lothern. He had a hawk deliver it. Could you have done the same thing?" Herulach sighed. "Why, yes, I suppose I could have. Why?" Calarion tried to keep his voice level, but did not succeed very well. "Why didn't you just do that instead of Moonhand nearly getting killed?" The mage blinked languidly. "I could have, but why waste the energy?" Calarion snarled in his face, "Moonhand nearly died!" One hand grabbed the man's shoulder, hard. Herulach's tones hardened. "Remove your hand." When Calarion did not move, the Loremaster slapped his hand up on to Calarion's, and snapped a word. With a cry of surprise and pain, Calarion pulled his seared hand back. "Morai-Heg curse you, why did you do that!?" he spat, clutching his wounded hand. "I told you to remove your hand," Herulach said coldly. "I am not your servant." And he turned and strode off, leaving the prince to clutch his wounded hand and glare at his back.  
  
Time passed. Calarion had his hand attended to by the healers, offering them no explanation of why his hand had been so thoroughly burnt. He avoided the arrogant mage for the rest of the day, fuming quietly. The rest of his host prepared itself for battle once more. Smooth wooden shafts of spears were clutched firmly. Scale mail coats and the distinctive ithilmar helms were pulled on, over pristine white robes. Bows were strung, scabbards laced on to belts. Saddles were set in place and lances readied. All over the camp, there was a bustle of activity, as Calarion's elves prepared to gamble their lives once again. But there was a brightness to their actions that had not been seen since the muster, long months ago. Calarion had told them of the plan, and they knew, should they have victory this day, it could pave the way to the freeing of eastern Ulthuan. And if they fell, there would never be another chance. For is they fell, then Lothern would surely fall as well, and with it the Phoenix King. This was the engagement that would change the course of the war forever. Calarion was less confident as he brooded alone. In his mind, he played over every strategy and scheme that Mortharor could use against his assault, and worked out possible counters. There were too many, he knew. Preparing for one trick would leave him open to another, and there was no way he could counter them all. And Mortharor would know this, and would use whatever weakness the left, exploit it and defeat him with it again. Then a grin came to his face. Obvious, really, when one thought about it. Obvious. He stood up and jogged lightly off to prepare for his own trick. It would be hard to organize, but if it worked, he might just be able to push the druchii back to Morband-Barad, the fortress of Mortharor that he had erected in the snow-drenched Annullii Mountains. Finally the hour of three was upon the army. With swift and hushed action, the army prepared for the attack on the dark elven lines.  
  
Melenar of House Coraith scratched his brow wearily. He hefted the sword, bloodied all its length, and cried out, "Fall back!" Around him, the ranks of Seaguard began to break away from their skirmishing battles and move deeper into the city. A captain came to him then. Melenar recognized him: it was Cambragol Sunbrow, one of the career soldiers of the Seaguard. "What is it, Cambragol?" the elflord said wearily, to tired to stand to attention as he ran slowly backwards to where the Seaguard were reforming for another stand. Cambragol answered swiftly and without any unnecessary information. "The anvil is ready, Prince Melenar." Melenar grinned like a wolf, and slapped Cambragol on the shoulder. "Good work. Now, get to your place." Cambragol didn't move. "This is my place," he said calmly. Melenar blinked. So it was. He was getting too tired for all this. "How long has it been since I last slept?" he asked himself quietly. "Four days, Prince Melenar," Cambragol said. Melenar blinked. "That long? Remind me to catch some sleep soon," he said, rubbing one leather-gauntleted hand over his flowing brown hair. Cambragol didn't answer. He just tightened his grip on his longspear, but the determined look on his face said volumes. Melenar flicked his right arm, sending a small spray of blood over one of the evacuated buildings from his sword. He breathed in deeply, then took up a martial pose, sword hand extended before him, other hand held back for balance. Unlike most elves, Melenar disparaged the use of armour, wearing only a beautiful ithilmar coat. "What hour do you make it?" Melenar asked Cambragol. Cambragol squinted at the sun. "Maybe three," he said dubiously. "Excellent. Calarion should be here soon to be our hammer, and the dark elves are here already." And they were. A band of about twenty of the dark elves came into sight, and Melenar could hear the sounds of fighting in the neighboring street. Melenar screamed, "Asuryan Firebird! Isha Elfmother!" Then he dove forward into the mass of dark elves, Cambragol on his heels. His sword flew, taking the throat of a dark elf with his first sweep. Then it was back in, and Melenar had to work furiously to avoid being struck by his skilled assailants. Cambragol was there then. He caught an overhand slice with the shaft of his spear, and then one swift motion sent the warrior sprawling. He thrust out twice, slamming the blunt end into a dark elf's gut, and the next blow driving his spear blade clean through another's heart. He left the spear then - too cumbersome at close quarters - and drew his own elf-forged sword. With his other hand he deftly pulled his long teardrop shaped shield down, and warded off an attack from one flank with it, while his sword spun in parry after parry. Melenar took advantage of the distraction caused by the captain's charge, and dropped down to his knees. The surprised dark elves were unable to stop him as he brought his sword around in a crimson arc, their blades bring too high to parry. Melenar's sword sheared through chain links and dropped two elves, who groaned and flopped around pathetically as they clutched their slit bellies. Melenar hopped back to his feet with grace, and waved his gory blade at the remaining attackers. They respected him now, and backed off slightly, ready for his next move. It was a quick one - with two slashes he put the downed warriors out of their misery and then prepared for the inevitable charge. He was not disappointed. The dark elves had thought to take advantage of his distraction, and they came bounding and slavering at him. He swung the longsword in broad arcs, keeping the dark elves back rather than doing any real attack. Then something heavy impacted with the back of his skull. It was only his keen warrior senses that saved him, for he began to move forward and out of the way before he even consciously knew of the attack. Even so, the blow sent Melenar reeling. With his left hand he touched the back of his head and was not surprised when his hand came away soaked with his own blood, even as his right hand delivered an instinctive and fatal attack to sneak. It was a useless gesture, though, for the dark elves were upon him, grinning at the prospect of the kill. They would be grinning wider had they realized that this was the commander of Lothern' defenses, and with his fall came Lothern's fall. They did not realize this. But Cambragol did. With a deftness born of desperation, he dove into the mess of warriors, hacking wildly and frantically. His savage sweeps brought down two more of the dark elves, before their own blades struck home. With a bloody froth on his lips, Cambragol fell, pierced by many blades. But his sacrifice had given Melenar both the time needed to recover, and the fury to finish the fight. Screaming wildly, hot tears of anger running down his face, he hurled himself into the dark elves. His anger made him cold and deadly, made him ruthless and murderous. The blade flew and hewed down the dark elves like a scythe through wheat. Seemingly heartbeats later for Melenar, the last mutilated corpse fell to the ground with a wet thump, and he dropped to his knees by Cambragol's side. Cambragol did not move. Fearfully Melenar reached out and laid one hand lightly on his friend's throat, feeling for a heartbeat. His search was rewarded, for there was a fluttering pulse still. Cambragol was not dead - a miracle, Melenar knew, when he surveyed Cambragol's bloody torso. There came a noise, the clatter of hooves on the pavement. Melenar looked up, hand tightening on his sword. If this were a dark elf, he would sell his life dearly! But the sight was not that of a dark elven rider on obsidian-dark steed. Instead, a vision of glory and beauty, a high elven lancer was coming towards him. "Over here, man!" Melenar roared. "Cambragol's wounded!" The rider came over, and swung off the horse. "Prince Melenar? I've been sent to find you by Prince Calarion!" Melenar paid further notice, and could now see that the colours on the uniform were different to his own, being a regal blue in shade. "My man here is wounded and near death," Melenar said. "I'll take you message later, but for now take him to safety. Just take his down this street and you'll get to the supply lines." Between the two of them, they shifted the wounded Cambragol and slumped him over the beautiful elf steed. "Isha Elfmother!" the knight exclaimed. "He's covered in wounds!" Melenar gave him a hard look. "Get him down there, and then come right back!" The knight mounted, and waved briefly at Melenar, before continuing at much faster pace towards the healers. 


	20. Chapter 20

The fighting was thick. Calarion had intended to hold back and observe from a distance, in order to better command, but the sight of the hated dark elves had lured him in, and the tides of the devils meant there was no escape until he was dead, or they were. He intended to make sure it was the second. And so his sword scythed as he abandoned his skill and fell back on the rage he had felt since learning of his father's death. "For Tarthalion!" he bellowed, and delivered a vicious backhand slash to a dark elf that took off his arm at the elbow and continued to tear a deep furrow through his chest. Gore flew, but Calarion did not care. Vengeance! He screamed again, using no words save a primal outletting of fury and bloodthirstiness. The roar echoed strangely as Calarion smote another Dark Elf into Morai-Heg's misty halls. Then a quick spin, and another hack, and a dark elf's severed torso fell to the ground. He continued his path of blood, and the high elves rallied behind him, their invincible leader. He slowed as another dark elf appeared before him, a champion, with a blade that was taller even than the lanky elf and looked as if it weighed twice as much as him. The champion swung, and Calarion backed up, knowing a hit by that titan would shear him in half. The greatsword came back across again, and Calarion was ready for it. He darted in after it had past him. Swung with his spear, making the champion grunt with pain and shock at the strange attack. Then one quick downward thrust and the warrior was dead, too, trampled underfoot by the victor. Standing on the corpse, Calarion found himself temporarily free from the fighting. He stood atop the crumpled corpse and brandished his blade. "For Tarthalion!" he roared, and then "For Ulthuan!" And the cries were taken up by those around him as they tore viciously into the despised foe at last. Vengeance for Tarthalion! Vengeance for Carus! Vengeance for Cyeos! The cries echoed through the lines. The dark elves tried to fight back, but the force and fury of the attacking army scared them. They fell back, deeper into the city, intent on slaughtering the defenders and finding a defensible position. But the masses of Seaguard, led by the grim faced Melenar of House Coraith, stood their ground, and the dark elves were trapped. And Calarion's elves came slamming onwards, driving the dark elves on to the spears of Melenar. Standing on an artificial hill made of dark elven corpses, Calarion had an excellent view of the battlefield, and he cried out again, a different battle cry. "Mortharor! Face me, Mortharor!" But Calarion could not see his nemesis, and continued crying vainly, without success. It was possible even that Mortharor was dead, killed by the high elven assault. But he doubted it - he'd know. Calarion's mind returned. Where was it? He knew that Mortharor could not have played his trump card yet. And if Mortharor didn't act soon, the battle would be lost for him. The move would come now. Calarion sheathed his gleaming blade, and pulled a longbow from his back, and one special red-dyed arrow from his quiver. The arrow had been specially enchanted so that when he let it fly it would catch on fire. A simple enchantment, and a very effective one for issuing commands. Instinct prompted Calarion to turn, so that he was looking out over the small hills that surrounded Lothern. Just in time, for even as he moved, a patch of ground - quavered - and then was gone. One of the hills was in fact another three regiments of dark elven warriors, elite ones most likely, and Calarion could make out Mortharor's black and red bat-skull banner. This was what he had been waiting for. As Mortharor's elites began a rear attack of their own, Calarion drew back the fine bowstring, and released. With a whine, the arrow shot up into the sky, igniting magically as it went. Calarion could not see where it landed. Then from their own hiding places, Calarion's cavalry appeared. They charged into Mortharor's men. Calarion grinned.  
  
Melenar of House Coraith looked up in amazement as the last of the dark elves fled from the ruins of Lothern. "By Kurnous," Melenar breathed. "We've done it. At last. We've defeated them." The Seaguard stood around quietly, saved for the puff of breath. Then one cried out, "Victory!" The cry was raised. "Victory! Victory!" Melenar stood and wept tears of joy and shock, as the elves began a wild dance of glee. The first true victory of the war, and it was his, his and Calarion's. On impulse he brandished his reddened blade, and cried, "For Ulthuan!" The Seaguard took up the cry, and pumped swords, spears, bows, and fists into the air. "For Ulthuan!" "For Ulthuan." Another voce, but this one, bone-weary, was barely above a whisper. But the power in the phrase was evident and caused all the elves to turn and regard the speaker. It was an elven warrior, soaked head to foot in blood - most of it his foes', though a fair amount was his own. He still held bare his ilthilmar sword, which glinted through the layers of blood. And he was clad in a beautiful suit of gold-tinted scale mail. It had to be Calarion Melenar cried out, "Water! Water for Calarion!" One of the Seaguard ran over and handed Calarion a full waterskin. The elf prince opened the thing above his head, so that it soaked through his already ruined robes and some poured into his mouth. Somewhat cleaner, Calarion strode over to Melenar. "Melenar of House Coraith?" "None other. And you would be Prince Calarion?" Calarion inclined his head. "Come with me. I'll take you to see your friend Moonhand. We can talk on the way there." "That is acceptable." The two turned and strode further into Lothern, towards the area that was still intact. "We've done well this day, Calarion. Tarthalion would be proud." "Not yet. I haven't taken the head of his killer yet - yet." "Tarthalion's dead? When? How?" "We got separated. His army got penned in by Mortharor and slaughtered. Only a handful escaped. Apparently, he faced Mortharor in single combat to give them time to escape. Mortharor butchered him." "And Mortharor is.?" "The dark elven general who's led the assault here. The Witch-King's greatest general. My prey." Calarion's harsh tones were frightening Melenar slightly. "Do you have the right attitude for this?" Calarion spun to face him. "You do what you must do. I will do what I must." Melenar decided to let the matter slip. "Do you know where the druchii have fled to?" "I suspect they have gone to Morband-Barad, Mortharor's fortress he erected in the Annulii Mountains. I've sent twenty knights, led by my lieutenant Tarran Angedhel, to follow them. They'll tell us where they've gone to, I'll lead my army after them, and we'll wipe out the remnants and raze their foul stronghold so low that the gods won't know what's happened to it." "A good plan. Will you need any reinforcements?" "Maybe a group of Seaguard. The cavalry are useless in the snow, so I'll leave the horses here. They had come by now to the inn, which Melenar's men had converted into a hospital. Melenar opened the door and walked inside, Calarion behind him. "The dark elves on this side of the city have been routed!" Melenar cried, and the elves gave a resounding roar. "Amazing how much noise they can make for wounded men," Calarion remarked wryly. They came soon to where Arhaindir Moonhand was. He was mostly recovered, the healing of the mages being very swift, and was grinding herbs for a herbal paste. "Calarion!" the cheerful elf cried, and the two embraced warmly. "How are you?" "Oh, I'm practically recovered. What's happened?" Quickly, Calarion filled him in on the battle and what was about to happen. Moonhand's face was worried. "Calarion, be careful. Don't underestimate Mortharor. He killed Tarthalion. He could kill you." Calarion snorted. "Don't worry about how me. He could kill me. I will kill him!"  
  
It was cold, viciously so. Tarran Angedhel shivered, even inside all the layers of thick white cloth he wore wrapped over his armour. With one hand, he gestured, and the other members of the band scrambled up the rock face to where he was. "Be careful," Tarran hissed. "I can hear the dark elves now." The warriors crawled forward, careful to move on the rock so as to not leave tracks. Tarran was in the lead, so he was first over the ridge and first to gaze into the valley. He froze again when he did so. The infernal fortress of Morband-Barad could be seen, its harsh-edged twin towers of black jutting into the sky. And there were the dark elves too, an army of them. Far more than what had escaped the rout at Lothern. Far, far, more. Calarion would come here expecting to find an ember. He would find an inferno. "About turn," Tarran Angedhel hissed. "Back to Lothern." But they all froze when they saw the dark elven warriors standing behind them, grinning, swords balanced in their hands lightly. It was not a battle. It was a massacre. Most of Tarran's men were cut down where they stood, before they could even draw their swords. Tarran did draw his though. Minor runes of cleaving shone as he hurled himself at the dark elves. One fell, his helm cleft in twain. Then swords were striking him, repeatedly, from all angles and directions. He fell into snow reddened with his own blood, and knew that he was dying. Then he heard a voice. "Stop." The voice scared him, and not just for the cruelty in it. He had heard that voice before, when he had led the flight after Tarthalion's death. It was Mortharor. "Do not kill that one. Bind him and bring him. That is Tarran Angedhel, second in command to Calarion Sapherior. He could be useful." "What of the rest, my lord?" "We do not need them. Bring their heads only." 


	21. Chapter 21

"Calarion! Wake up!" The elflord shook, and then came fully wake, sitting up in the comfortable quarters Melenar had made available for him during his stay in Lothern. The elf shook him again. "There's a messenger here. From Mortharor." Calarion shoved the elf out of his way, and sprang out of the bed. He grabbed his ancient sword and began running down the stairs, not bothering to change out of his light sleeping robes. The Seaguard captain shook his head and followed after him at a jog, to be able to keep up. He heard the sound of Calarion rushing down the flight of stairs, and then the door being harshly flung open and slammed, and a light patter as the elf sprinted off to meet the messenger. The messenger was a dark elven warrior riding a wild-eyed black stallion, one of the fine breed the dark elves stole in their raids on Tiranoc and Ellyrion. He wore light black robes and a shirt of black steel chain-links, with a black cloak whipping in the stiff breeze that waved around Calarion's robe. The elflord found himself shivering, and wished that he had thought to take a cloak as well. "You are the rat they call Calarion?" the rider cried. Calarion drew his sword slowly. "I am." The horse trotted forward slowly past the rubble from the fallen buildings.  
  
"You can put your toy away. I bear a gift for you from my lord Mortharor the Black, and to my regret it doesn't involve a sword in your neck." Some warriors came running over and took a position between Calarion and the emissary. "Need protection?" the dark elf jeered. "Do I?" Calarion retorted. The dark elf simply laughed, and pulled a sack from his belt. "Compliments of Mortharor," he yelled, and flung it to Calarion. The elf lord caught it out of midair deftly. "Go on, have a look," the rider said. "Go on!" Gingerly, Calarion opened the bag. Then with a yelp of shock he dropped it again, and it fell heavily to the ground, its gruesome contents coming out. Elven heads. Now Calarion could see the soaked red wetness at the bottom of the bag, and he could recognize the elves too. Arandis. Cathedran. Ealiorahe. Talashah. Laeranion. Eohe. Tarroch. Arlaniaer. Rethutan. Imathir. The rider pulled an identical sack from the other side of his belt and emptied that at his horse's feet. Nine more heads rolled in the dust, and Calarion felt sick. But. Nineteen heads. Twenty elves sent. That left. Calarion quickly looked around. "Where is Tarran Angedhel?" he said slowly, dreading the consequences. "Mortharor says this: if you want the complete set, you'll have to visit him at Morband-Barad. The twentieth of your spies is alive and well - that is, well considering the tortures he's undergone. You can come to Morband- Barad any time you want to pick him up. Mortharor says he's waiting for you." And with a shrill laugh the dark elf spun his horse and galloped out of Lothern. Calarion stood in his night robe. He could not cry. No tears came to his eyes. Instead his face was contorted in rage. This was the last insult he'd put up with from Mortharor! This time he'd have his head! "Take those heads," he said coldly. "They, at least, will have a decent burial."  
  
"You cannot be serious!" exclaimed Arhaindir Moonhand. The elf was still puttering around assisting the healers, and Calarion was still, watching him intently. "I assure you, I am quite serious. Are you with me?" "I'm not fit for fighting just yet. It'll be another day, and then my elves and I will be assisting Melenar with fighting off the dark elves here. But I will not give command of my men to you for this battle." "Why not?" Arhaindir put down the cloths he had just boiled and eyed Calarion squarely. "I am afraid." "There is no need to be afraid for me, my friend." "That is not what I said. I am afraid of you. I fear your rage. And you should be, too. The only elves that hate like you do are the dark elves. Is that a comparison you want to be made?" "My anger is acceptable to me, if it gives me Mortharor's head." "But is the anger your tool, or are you a tool of your anger? I cannot trust my household to you, when rage is commanding them. You, I trust. Your anger, though.And in any case, I would be wary about this battle. Mortharor must have a trap intended for you." "I know." "You know? Then why are you insisting upon this? Tarran Angedhel's life is a small prize in the large scheme of things, and he knows this." "This isn't about Tarran Angedhel. It's about me, and Mortharor. Tarran's capture has just accelerated the inevitable." Moonhand sighed. "I shall see you upon your return - presuming, of course, that you return." Calarion turned to leave. As he did, one of the healers, a plain looking elfwoman spoke. "Excuse me, my lord, do you need assistance?" Calarion shrank back, with a look akin to fear or anger on his face. "Nothing!" he snapped hastily, and hurried out of the building. Arhaindir Moonhand picked up the cloths again and sighed. Would Calarion survive this battle? And more to the point, would there be anything left of his soul if he did?  
  
Later that day, Calarion's strike force left Lothern and began the march for Morband-Barad, Calarion at the front. There was a grimness that respected that of their leader as they moved for the final battle of Calarion's war. Arhaindir Moonhand did not watch them go.  
  
The dark elven reavers continued their assault. Small swift craft, they sped around the huge Ruby Gate, propelling arrows of fire at the gate and the occasional blast from a mage. For their part, the defenders met the attack as best they could, launching counterattacks from the bolt throwers mounted upon the vast red edifice. But the dark elven craft were, for the most part, too quick and agile for the bolts to have any serious effect, buoyed by the dark wizardries of their passengers, although one of the reavers died in spectacular manner as the bolt exploded through its hull and sent it and its crew to clog up the waterways as additional protection - for there was a reef now of sunken ships. In calmer times, Lothern's Guild of Water-Mages would have cleared the mess, but it was not calmer times, and the Guild was holed up in the city, fortifying their guildhouse. So the skeletal craft remained. It resembled nothing so much as a pack of vultures circling a dying lion, the lion trying to bat them off as its paws grew heavy with death. It was a metaphor that pleased the Witch-King greatly. And while the Witch-King was not there at the Ruby Gate, he had sent something as a helper. Only describable as thing, the waterborne monstrosity looked much like a hydra, and in fact it was with these that Malekith had begun his demented experimentation. The hydra now had not three but six 'heads'. But instead of heads Malekith had grafted Dark Elven torsos upon the thing, with arms and heads and all. Their faces told of the eternal torment this thing offered them. And behind them, another similar monstrosity - the head of a dragon, a great Black that the Witch-King had slain. It coiled and roared endlessly, until even the stern defenders grew afraid and made as if to flee. But the Witch-King's thing would not let them. Up it reared, and with brutal instinct the dragon-head opened wide, exhaling a quick gout of acidic fumes. The elves that were caught by the blast fell from the Gate into the reef below, screaming as their skin withered and burnt. The rest just ran all the faster, their courage broken. Now the thing turned and undulated towards the deserted Ruby Gate. With a heave it threw its considerable mass at the gate. It shuddered worryingly. The thing slammed into the gate again. With a shriek of stressed metals, the gate was distorted, a large crack running up it. Smash! Smash! Smash! And at the fifth time, the Ruby Gate fell sundered, and the dark elven fleet surged into Lothern.  
  
Melenar jerked. "WHAT!?" he screamed, worried like never before. "The Ruby Gate has fallen! The Dark Elves have entered the harbor!" the messenger cried. Melenar blanched. If left unchecked, the Dark Elves could sink several of the great floating islands, or move directly for the Phoenix King and kill him, or attack him from the rear where there were no defenses. "Get Cambragol and Arhaindir Moonhand to bring their men after me!" he told the messenger. "And Meclar, too!" he added. "Then follow yourself! We'll need all the men we can spare!" Melenar turned and sprinted deeper into the city, he regiment behind him. It was chaos. The dark elves had already penetrated far into the bay, and flames roared from all over the islands. Melenar stood in shock. How could he save Lothern now? But part of that indomitable spirit and stubbornness that inhabits all elves shone through now. He'd be damned if he gave up without a fight! A tower of flames shot high and then sunk, as one of the floating islands exploded and sunk. Melenar felt sick - how many civilians were packed on to those things? How many elves had just died? He continued running. Strange, he noted to himself, that they had not attacked the Phoenix King yet. Maybe the Witch-King wanted to save that pleasure for himself. It would be most like him. But something niggled at Melenar's mind. He'd missed something. All the dark elven reavers were beginning to cluster on one of the isles. Of course! They were attacking the Seaguard barracks! Should they burn all the ships there, then they'd have total naval supremacy! The reavers had landed now, and the dark elves were busy looting and pillaging. And.Melenar caught a glimpse of something and wished that he had not. What in the name of Kurnous was that!? Melenar had a plan. Suddenly, abruptly, the solution came to him. But it was risky, insanely so. The stakes were high. They had nothing to lose. He spun to face a Seaguard. "Go to the Guild of Water-Mages. Get the highest-ranking member you can find! Run!" The elf said, "Sir!" and went at a sprint. The longest five minutes of Melenar's life passed. He organized the Seaguard into ships and sent them out to ineffectually skirmish while the flames grew. It was only a matter of time until they finished on that island, and when they did it was all over. Soon the elf he had sent came running back, with a short balding elf with him. Melenar recognized him - it was Kalgaer, head of the guild. "Lord Melenar! What is the meaning of this!" Kalgaer puffed indignantly. "Dark Elves have penetrate the harbor. They're attacking the Seaguard island." "And?" "Is it possible to change the magic keeping the thing up? To, say, make it explode?" "You can't do that! It's insanity!" "IS IT POSSIBLE?!" "Yes." "How do I do it then?! Tell me, or Lothern falls!" Kalgaer brought up a small crystal orb from his pocket. "The safe way would take a day. This way, just smash the globe on the island and it'll explode." Melenar snatched the thing. Kalgaer grabbed it back and mumbled a few words over it. "There. It is active now. And if you are wrong." "Then we're all dead anyway and it doesn't matter!" Melenar sprinted to the docks where he'd had his officer Meclar wait, and vaulted in. "Full speed to the Seaguard barracks!" he roared. As the ship moved, Melenar quickly explained his plan - explode the island in the dark elves' face and kill them all. Meclar shrugged. "Whoever does that is dead." "That's why I'm doing it," Melenar said. "Me, the city - I know which is more important." "I'm coming too," Meclar announced. "You need someone in case you're salvageable." Melenar nodded. Then the ship jerked violently, and screams of terror came. Melenar and Meclar spun, blades snapping out. Malekith's thing was watching them from the side of their ship. "Asuryan!" Meclar spat in horrified awe. Melenar shouted, "No time for talk!" and ran forward. Six dark elven warriors - or their remnants - met him, suspended on the thing's heads. Twelve blades hurtled at him. Melenar scythed his sword back and forth, trying vainly to fend off all the attacks. But it was not possible - each dark elf had its own brain and they were perfectly coordinated. Melenar felt blades strike him and knew that he was dead. Meclar was at his side then, and the two stood and hacked furiously. Melenar scored the first 'kill', lopping one of the dark elves in twain. And with the first gone the rest were easy. He hacked with the persistency of a woodcutter, not fighting but cleaving. Beside him, he heard Meclar shriek in pain and say one of the dark elves draw its blade out of the elf's shoulder. The limb was attached, but Meclar would never use it again. Meclar caught his blade with his left hand and tore out the dark elf's throat with it, but Melenar could tell he was in great pain. Still, all six head were gone now. Then the dragon head reared up, and Melenar sucked in his breath. This was up to him - Meclar was too badly wounded. "For Lothern!" he cried, the one thing of most importance in his life, and charged. His sword struck the dragon repeatedly on the neck. Six swift blows. But the thing's natural armor was too tough, and all that he got for his efforts were a displaced scale. The head lashed down, serpent-fast, and Melenar tried to dodge as best possible. The head struck his side, and tore with vicious teeth. Blood poured and Melenar yelped. He swung again, aiming for the nearest eye this time. A spray of pus-like fluid and the thing's roar told him he had destroyed the eye. The dragon-head reared up, and opened its mouth wide. Very wide. Melenar knew the thing intended to use its deadly breath on him, and began to dodge. Then he changed his mind. Stood proud and tall, clutching his sword in both hands. "Lothern!" he roared, and drove the sword deep into the fiend's throat, through the back of the mouth, and up into its brain. It roared. The sound was hideous in its volume, and Melenar could not hear his own voice screaming, though he could recognize from his throat that it would be a raw noise. Then the dragon's breath came out, one final attack on its slayer. The black cloud came out and engulfed Melenar, withering his skin, making him fall to the deck painfully. The dragon head fell back and was lost in the sea, taking his sword with it. Melenar lay in agony, as the ship sunk around him. Soon he was engulfed in the waters and felt himself drowning. Then a hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled him up. Through his agony, Melenar could see two others in the small pleasure craft, Meclar and a Seaguard. Meclar reached into Melenar's pocket, instigating another surge of agony, and pulled out the crystal sphere. "I don't think you're up to this any more." Melenar did not respond. Could not, in fact. Meclar waved. "Good-bye, Melenar." Then he turned away and dove off the side of the boat. Vaguely, Melenar could hear the sound of splashing as Meclar swam to the island. Then a minute after his departure, the boat was hurled by waves, flung several metres, as a vast fireball rose into the sky. Meclar was dead. Lothern was saved. Melenar smiled, despite how the movement tugged painfully at the blackened skin of his face, and went to sleep. 


	22. Chapter 22

Calarion's confrontation with Mortharor was to be the end of a large stage in the war. The High Elves had, thus far, been relentlessly driven back and defeated repeatedly by their dark cousins. Now the High Elves were all but conquered. The great port-city of Lothern had been saved by the heroic actions of Melenar and the Seaguard, but already the Witch-King Malekith prepared additional armies for the attack. But they were not assigned. For now the Witch-King was nervous. The Two- Faced Man, prophesied to him so long ago, had not been found. And the Dreaded One knew that his arrival must be imminent. And also, despite the passage of several months since the lightning raid on Avelorn and the destruction of the Evercourt, the assassin Vuthil and his team had not contacted him yet with any news about the death of the Everqueen And so, despite total success in the war, Malekith could sense that the victory would slide out of his grasp unless he located either of these people. Meanwhile, the war raged on in various parts of Lothern. The forces of Ulthuan were mustering in northern Saphery, preparing for a final offensive against the invaders that would decide the ultimate fate of Ulthuan. Already, the surviving members of Alarielle's Maiden Guard and Prince Ikarus' Felix Legion were there, and many other bands were making their way there for the great muster. The site of the muster was an isolated field of absolutely no significance whatsoever, but was a name that would echo forever in the annals of history. The place was called Finuval Plain.  
  
Calarion shivered. By Asuryan it was cold! The white wind snapped past him and through his soldiers. It tore his fur-lined cloak from his grip and sent it flying out behind him, leaving him colder still, until he managed to snag it and wrap it back around him again. By his side, the mage Kelnenimros shook his head in disgust. "Why couldn't we just leave the dark elves up here to freeze?" Calarion said, "As far as I care, they can freeze here or in Morai-Heg's halls. The temperature can't be too different!" Kelnenimros snorted. "As a matter of fact, I think it would be warmer there." "Don't joke about it. We both know I'll probably be burning half these men here after the battle." Kelnenimros nodded. "Are the columns in place?" Kelnenimros performed a quick chant under his breath, and squinted slightly, before answering. "They are." "What about the scouts?" The Seaguard mage moved his head, so he was looking in the direction of the three scouts. His brow furrowed. "I cannot sense them." They both knew what that meant. Calarion said it. "Dead, then." "Give the sign to your friend in the column. The druchii scum shall be upon us shortly." Kelnenimros snapped his fingers. "Done." "Good. Now, we wait." The column continued its march. And what a small force it must appear to the watching Druchii, what a tempting target for Mortharor the Black! Calarion chuckled, as he cast his eye over the two hundred elves he had with him. No cavalry - the snows made horses impractical - but elven spearmen and archers, who had been with him and his father since the beginning, since Dagorannon. And his personal guards, the siltholrim, eager to free their lost captain, walking proudly around Calarion and Kelnenimros. They had been there before Dagorannon, since the first encounter with the druchii scouting band. Calarion was proud of his men. And he knew how such a force must seem to Mortharor (his lip curled at the very thought of the hated name). A tempting morsel, a prize that would be oh-so-easy to attack and destroy, and deliver his hated enemy to him at last. And the deaths of the three forward scouts - brave heroes all, who had known exactly what their mission was and of the fact of death - he knew that Mortharor had been tempted too much, would come like the moth to this inviting flame. "Bows readied? Spears?' he said quietly, glancing around the tiny force. The elves nodded. Despite the appearance of a column on march, the elves would be able to draw their weapons very fast. A good thing, considering the likely warning they would achieve before the assault. He himself had a longbow on his back, despite his preference of the longsword. Calarion got more warning than he would have expected. A pebble on an overhand, rolling. He fitted an arrow to his bow and cried out, "Attack!" And it was. Down the cliffs on both sides, dark elven attackers came howling, brandishing weapons already stained with their own blood as a prayer to Khaela-Mensha-Khaine, their dark god. Calarion released the string, and his red-fletched arrow was flung through the air, in a cloud of other arrows. He watched with satisfaction as the arrow buried itself into a chainmail-coated chest, turning it a sodden red. Then he set another arrow to the string, and released again. This time the shot struck one of the dark elves in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back. A good shot, and one that slowed him down long enough for one of the better archers to place an arrow directly in his forehead, killing him neatly. And now the dark elves were upon them. They came screaming down into the set spears of the defenders, splintering the shafts with the force of their impact. Many died with that, and now the defenders were forced to draw their finely-crafted blades and trust to the strength and swiftness of their arms as the fighting turned into a vicious close-quarters melee. Many died on both sides, and the snows turned a deep red with their blood. Calarion surveyed the horde. There were more of them than he'd though! He'd expected maybe five hundred, which he could have coped with easily, not the thousand there were. This would make things tricky. And all the more realistic. He brandished his sword. "Fall back! Fall back!" he cried, and the sound echoed between the cliff faces. Around him, the High Elves began slowly to disengage and jog backwards, towards what Mortharor must know was a defensible position, a rocky outcrop that meant the track was only fifty elves wide. A sensible position for an outnumbered army. He was counting on that. And sure enough, Mortharor seemed to have accepted the ruse. The dark elves split into three, with two smaller forces hurrying back up the cliffs so as to be able to attack Calarion's force from the rear. Perfect. Calarion turned and ran now, too. The distance seemed longer than it had when had walked it just before. Not a good thing, but Calarion dismissed it as simple stress. Then the sounds of battle, and Calarion cried out, "Stand!" For white-clad elves had emerged from the snow on either side of the dark elven force. The main force of Calarion's army charged into the confused flanks of the dark elves, crying out, "For Tarthalion! For Carus!" And now Calarion led the charge of the first force. "For Tarthalion!" he bellowed. "For Ulthuan!" And the High Elves barreled in. Attacked on three sides, the dark elves were thrown into a panic. How had this perfect ambush been set up? How was it that there were three times as many of the High Elves as they had thought? And how was it that this battle, a guaranteed success, was slipping away? A voice cried out, "Rout now and I'll have your guts for dessert!" Mortharor, in his distinctive black plate and skull-helmet, bellowed threats at the shaken dark elven line. "That runt thinks he's won! Begin your work, my friends, bring the cavalry," he said to a cadre of cloaked forms. And the sorceresses began to prepare their elaborate trick.  
  
Kelnenimros saw them first, a vast host of dark elves mounted on their lizards. "Calarion!" he yelled, and gestured. Calarion shouted, "Cold Ones!" but was swept away by the fighting before he could say more. It was not good. The third flanking movement of the day, consisting of hundreds of riders on their ravenous beast-steeds, coming in behind the white-cloaked First and Second columns as they fought desperately the mortal foe. This could decide the battle. And there was just he, Kelnenimros, to find some way to counter them. Maybe some manner of fireball. The ice-loving lizards wouldn't like that at all. He opened himself up to the Winds of Magic, and began the rather simple incantation that would fling a fireball into the riders' midst. There was something wrong. Puzzled, Kelnenimros ceased the fireball. There was something unusual about the riders, something that smacked of.why, of magic. Of.magic! Of course! The solution was, as all solutions seem when they are found, simple. He grinned and began a different casting. A slightly harder one, but still well within his capabilities. He finished it within the space of seconds, and with a wide grin released it. The cold one riders disappeared. He turned back to the throng and searched for Calarion. "I've dealt with the cavalry," he said quickly. "Illusions." Calarion raised one eyebrow and his shield, blocking a dark elven blade. "Really?" Then he turned back to the fray. His sword flickered and the warrior before him was dropped to the ground, his chest cleaved in twain. "Mortharor! Face me!" he howled to the mass of warriors. He slashed again, taking out a dark elf's throat. "Mortharor!" His next blow sheared through an elf's torso. "Mortharor!" "You called?" a mocking voice said. Mortharor stood in front of Calarion, a vision of pure evil in the skull- helm, holding the twin-headed halberd lightly. "You have learnt much. I'm impressed. You even dispelled the cavalry." Calarion snarled, "He did that. All I'm going to do is kill you." He gestured to Kelnenimros as he cleft through another dark elf between him and his nemesis. Mortharor said, "He did?" A lightning flicker, and then one tip of his halberd was bathed in Kelnenimros' blood. "Think of that as my gift to you," Mortharor sneered, as he flicked Kelnenimros' blood on to the steaming corpse of the mage. Calarion simply screamed in rage and charged. His sword flew in at a rate that made all the combatants nearby stop to observe the titans clashing. The sound was one of a continuous scrape, metal upon metal. Neither spoke, all their concentration upon the deadly contest. Mortharor struck first, the blade of his halberd coming in for Calarion's throat. The same killing blow as he gave to Tarthalion. Calarion pulled back, and the blow left a red scratch and tore off the brooch that attached his cloak, sending it flying off. They strained for an age, flickering blows so quickly they could scarcely be seen. Calarion's blade, the ancient sword of his line, struck low, and then darted up high. It caught Mortharor on the skull faceplate, smashing it completely and sending it spinning into the snow. They paused briefly as Calarion looked into Mortharor's face for the first time. "So this is what evil looks like," Calarion hissed. Mortharor's face was not particularly attractive, nor hideous. It was made from a mass of harsh edges - his cheekbones, his jaw, his brow, his nose. But the most noticeable feature was the complete lack of any mortal qualities. It was bland and expressionless save for the pure malice that poured through and made onlookers shudder, even the dark elves. "I shall take your skull to replace it," the dark elven general promised, and he began the attack anew suddenly. Calarion's blade jerked up, taking the swift attack. And then they were back to their deadly sparring, each fuelled only by their irresistible anger. But Mortharor was winning. Blow after blow he flung, but all were parried. Even so, all drove the High Elf back, one step, one inch, at a time. Soon there would be nowhere for him to go. Calarion screamed in fury and his blows doubled in speed. His breath was labored. "Die, damn you!" he howled. But Mortharor was used to fighting angry warriors, and Calarion's blows did nothing. Then his backing up ended and Calarion felt rough rock and snow against the back of his beautiful golden armour. There was nowhere for him to go. Mortharor knew this. The halberd began a different game, one that kept Calarion penned in. And blind fury is a poor tool for one who wishes to parry. Calarion felt the sting of the halberd repeatedly, but fended off any attacks that would have killed him. It was then that sanity returned to Calarion. Too exhausted for even his rage to sustain him, he found himself there. Doomed, surely. He swung, taking an attack from that angle. Missed one from his right. He had lost his shield long before, and had the blade of Tathel Sapherion gripped firmly in both hands. But is the anger your tool, or are you a tool of your anger? The words of Arhaindir Moonhand, before he had left. And all too true. He was a tool of his anger. He had abandoned much of the training he had received. He knew better ways to fight than this. And another statement rose to his mind. That is not what I said. I am afraid of you. I fear your rage. And you should be, too. The only elves that hate like you do are the dark elves. Is that a comparison you want to be made? Anger was not the right way. Throughout his life, Calarion had never seen Tarthalion grow angry. Even when the war had seemed forgone, he had maintained a grim resolve and even. pity for the dark elves. Never hatred. By allowing himself to hate Mortharor, he had abandoned everything his father had stood for. The realization hit him like a blow from Mortharor's halberd. Tears came to Calarion's eyes. He'd failed, and would die here because of it. No. This was not over yet. He would win this, in his father's name, for Tarthalion. Mortharor's halberd came in, aimed for Calarion's throat. Calarion spun his sword so that the blade pointed downwards, and caught the blow. A quick flick, and Mortharor's attack was flung wide. Calarion took advantage, coming forward, blade flying with icy precision. He could still feel hatred, but now used it to his advantage, to keep him on his feet. He had a stronger tool now - the memory of his father. Mortharor's face showed puzzlement as the advance changed. He tried techniques gained over centuries of fighting, and all were caught by Calarion and exploited to the High Elf's advantage. Then Calarion feinted, and Mortharor brought his halberd out to parry. Calarion changed the path of his attack. It struck hard Har Ganeth steel, and with implacable force cleaved through the master-crafted halberd. The next blow sent Mortharor sprawling in his heavy black plate armour. Calarion bent down until he was looking directly at Mortharor's eyes. "For Tarthalion," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "For my father." Then he drove the blade in. 


	23. Chapter 23

Tyrion thrashed. Alarielle woke in the damp darkness, with the sound of Tyrion moaning painfully. Her heart bled in sympathy - and maybe more. And in shame. How was is that her powers, once so great, had dwindled to such a stage that she could no longer even cure her protector of the venom that slowly pulsed through his veins? It was a simple thing to do, really, expelling the foul intruder from Tyrion. But now even the simplest of cantrips, even creating a light, was beyond her. Why could this be? Had Isha abandoned her, for failing somehow? It had to be so, for no other power could combat that of Isha. And it would not be Isha's fault. The fault had to be her own, and had to have come from the cowardice she had displayed in fleeing from the Evercourt. Had she stood firm and trusted in Isha, maybe she could have won the day, and not doomed Elenia and Naideth and Hestaire and the rest to death. She had failed them, and she had failed Isha. It was not a pleasant thought. Tyrion thrashed wilder, now saying something, and Alarielle watched as one foot smacked fairly painfully into her own leg. She coloured. How could she have been so selfish, consumed by her own doubts, when Tyrion needed her. She rose lightly and picked her way over to him, then laid one long- fingered hand on his brow. It was hot and clammy. Of course. The poison was killing him slowly, and he would likely be dead before Alarielle reached safety. A fact that made ashes in her mouth. "Heshe, heshe," she whispered, a lullaby traditionally said to soothe elven infants. "Heshe." Tyrion's eyes opened. They were bleary and weak, but still gazed at her intently. Tyrion's willpower was keeping him active. "What?" he said again, weakly. "You were raving," she said sensitively. "Again." Her hand shifted to caressing his dirtied and tangled golden mane. He did not reply. Alarielle withdrew her hand and sat back, pulling her torn cloak tighter around her. Tyrion's cloak, really - the elflord had given it to her so that she might preserve her dignity and modesty as the flight disintegrated their clothing. Tyrion sat up. He opened his mouth, about to say something. Alarielle waited expectantly. Tyrion shut his mouth again, and pulled himself to his feet. Lamely, he said, "Since we're both awake, we should press on." They both picked up their gear - Alarielle's consisting of her beautiful staff and Tyrion's the plain and unadorned ithilmar longsword. A twig snapped. "What was that?" Tyrion hissed. His sword was bared in his hand, drawn with such speed that to Alarielle it seemed to simply appear there. Alarielle cowered. She did not reply. Then Tyrion sprang forward, blade swinging. "Run, Alarielle! The druchii are upon us!" There was a clash of swords as Tyrion struck at an assassin who dropped from a high branch. Alarielle started. She could hear the sound of two more dark elves running in, but the sound of Tyrion fighting the first blocked most of the sound and made it impossible to tell what directions they came from. Like a frightened deer she stood still, barely breathing. Then a black shadow hurtled into vision. Alarielle fled. She could hear clearly the sound of twigs breaking under her feet, and those of the other assassins. A cry of death rang out from behind her. The dark elves had killed Tyrion. And she sprinted frantically, simply trying to avoid her inevitable fate. A hand grabbed her arm. Wild with fear, she tried to punch her assailant, but the dark elf simply took the weak blow. She could vaguely see a twinkle of moonlight through the forest canopy reflecting off polished steel, a drawn blade. The dark elf flung her and she sprawled heavily to the ground, helpless as the dark elf drew back the sword for the kill. Another shape flew through the air and landed in front of her, between her and her death. Another gleaming sword caught the first. The moon had shifted slightly, and now the light shone down from directly overhead, revealing to the frightened elflady where she was. She lay in a small clearing, at the feet of Tyrion and an assassin. Tyrion was bloodied but his face was contorted in concentration as he parried the dark elf's attacks. The dark elf made a sidestep and swung, taking advantage of the elflord's hindered feet - hindered by the presence of Alarielle directly behind him. It was an impossible attack to parry correctly, and to do so would leave Tyrion's guard wide open. But Tyrion refused this. He could not fail. He flung himself back acrobatically, curving over Alarielle and landing hand near her. Alarielle could hear him grunt in pain as he struck the ground. But the irregular maneuver brought him a moment's rest in which the assassin gaped. Tyrion's feet struck out in an arc, catching the assassin. Alarielle scrambled out of the way as the assassin fell, though using his skills to lessen the force of the drop. Then Tyrion was on his feet again, the assassin already rising. He swung, a torrent of wild blows that forced his foe to remain down and concentrate on parrying. The assassin was so intent on this that he never noticed Tyrion repositioning his feet, until suddenly the sword stopped and Tyrion's boot swung instead. The assassin screamed in agony, and Tyrion's next blow promptly ran him through.  
  
Vuthil stood at the edge of the clearing, watching Ethak and Tyrion's vicious fight with pleasure. Soon it would be time to kill the young elf and the Everqueen too. He fumbled briefly in his pockets, reaching for the black sphere that the Dreaded One had given him so long ago after the fall of Avelorn. Finding it, he gave a sigh of satisfaction and looked admiringly at its flawlessness. Then he spun and hurled it into a tree. The thing shattered in a shower of black shards, and causing a black cloud- blacker by far than the darkness around him. Gradually it spread into the shape of a circle. And through it, Vuthil could see the iron helm of the Witch-King Malekith the Dreaded One himself. "You have taken your time, yes, assassin?" came Malekith's grating whisper "One of my men betrayed me and tried to kill me. It slowed us down greatly," Vuthil retorted. "How.shortsighted of him. I trust you showed him the error of his ways?" "His bones are rotting in the forest." "Good." Malekith's eyes blazed behind the helmet. Vuthil imagined them as two red points of light. In fact, Vuthil thought, they probably were, and that disturbed him. "Now, you have the Everqueen?" "The warrior who protects her fights like a daemon. He's killed both of my of my men." "Are you afraid, assassin?" Malekith taunted. "Never!" Vuthil boomed. "I think you may need some help. I shall arrange for it. My emissary will be with you shortly to collect the Everqueen. The other, I give to you - as a reward for your services, let us say." Vuthil bowed. "You are most gracious, Dreaded One." Malekith hissed, "And if you fail me now, I shall hand you over to my messenger. I do not think that you would enjoy the torments a daemon would put you through." Vuthil said, "A daemon?" "Yes. You say this warrior fights like a daemon. Let us find out, hmmm?" Then the cloud faded and was gone.  
  
Tyrion stumbled away from the corpse of the assassin to Alarielle. "Keep running," he gasped. I think there's still one more of them out there." Vuthil said, "Yes, there is." The assassin stood at the edge of the clearing. He paced slowly, circling Tyrion and Alarielle. "So, you killed both the assassins," Vuthil said. Tyrion did not reply, but took a two handed grip on his blade and turned to face the assassin. Disturbed. Vuthil had not even drawn his sword yet. The dark elf was within striking distance now, but Tyrion did not attack. "I'll have to tell you, the Dreaded One is very upset about that. He doesn't like it at all." Tyrion spoke. "And what does the Witch-King intend to do about it?" Swords slashed. Vuthil sneered over now-locked blades, "He says I can do whatever I want with you." He applied pressure on the swords, flinging Tyrion to the ground. The elf scrambled back as Vuthil paced forward. Vuthil struck heavily. Tyrion rolled out of the way and back to his feet. "Ah, a moving target!" Vuthil sneered. "You have increased my fun ten- fold!" Vuthil struck again, two powerful blows that should have cleft Tyrion in half. The elf crouched down low, ducking the first, and then flung himself high in the air, above the second. "Very acrobatic!" Vuthil jeered. Tyrion panted hoarsely. "I'm glad you're impressed," he said dryly. "Oh, I am," Vuthil said, and swung again, forcing Tyrion to step back further. "Tired, are you?" Tyrion taunted. "Or maybe afraid?" Vuthil laughed as he stalked Tyrion. "Young idiot, you have much to learn. A Master Assassin is afraid of nothing." And he struck again, making Tyrion run to the side. This time, though, Tyrion had miscalculated. He darted smoothly away - into the assassin's corpse. He stumbled, and caught his balance. But now Vuthil was upon him, attacking with all the skill of a Master Assassin, raining blows from angles Tyrion had never thought possible. But Tyrion's sword swung at an equal pace, taking the attacks. His face was pale, but he held off the enraged Vuthil. Tyrion had learnt what Hallar and Elenia had always known. Simple skill is never enough. A warrior needs a focus for his skill. And Tyrion had found his focus. He would not let any assassin harm Alarielle. Vuthil's foot swung, trying to trip Tyrion. The high elf sprang up and struck the assassin cleanly in the stomach with both feet, sending the dark elf sprawling. But even on his back, Vuthil was a dangerous foe. His sword slashed once, ripping through the muscles on Tyrion's sword-arm. With a howl of pain and a spurt of blood, Tyrion dropped the sword and staggered back, clutching his lacerated right arm close to his stomach. Vuthil came to his feet and began to stalk him again, slowly, mockingly. They paced around the glade and Alarielle grew frantic with fear, for surely Tyrion was doomed. Vuthil charged. Tyrion saw the assassin come, bent over nearly double, longsword at one side. But he refused to move, tensing for the right moment. It came. Tyrion struck down with his foot, praying he had not miscalculated, for to do so would be to doom himself. But he had not. His foot struck the pommel-stone of his discarded sword, making the blade jerk upwards. Up into Vuthil's stomach. There was a spray of blood as the sword stunk into the dark elf's stomach and continued. Vuthil jerked upwards but the surprise blow had already happened. Still Vuthil stood, his lifeblood spurting out on to Tyrion. "You may have won, but I'll be damned if I go without you!" Vuthil gasped. Tyrion began to move. Vuthil's left hand grabbed him. The curved sword swung back to take his head. Then Vuthil gasped and collapsed, dead. Tyrion nearly fainted with shock. He had done it, defeated his foes and slain his enemy - with a trick, admittedly, but still a victory. And he was alive. Numbed, he picked up his gory sword as another form hurtled into him - though this time a much more pleasant one. "You won!" Alarielle cried, clutching Tyrion tightly around the waist. "I shouldn't have," he murmured, stumbling over to a tree with Alarielle's help and collapsing at its base. "Do you know why I won?" He finished the statement. "Because I couldn't bare to see any of them harm you." Alarielle turned and looked at him, wide-eyed. "Yes," he said peacefully. "I love you, Alarielle." Then the clearing shook. Huge footsteps, coming towards them. Tyrion scrambled to his feet again. "By Asuryan!" he spat. "What now?" Then the trees parted and the two saw it. It was huge. Probably three times the size of Tyrion, who was accounted tall amongst Elves. A monstrosity of muscles and flesh. Strangely, sickeningly sensuous, but Tyrion felt no attraction to its, rather repulsion and fear. Four delicately hideous arms waved, two ending in smooth-shelled crab claws. A daemon. Tyrion waved his sword at it, still clutching Alarielle around the waist with the left. "Foul creature of chaos!" he cried as loud as he could. "Withdraw or taste elven steel!" Then it spoke. There was no way that Tyrion or Alarielle could describe that voice. It was horrifyingly sexual. It was repulsively attractive. It was a bass rumble and a grating squeal. It was guilelessly tricking. It was Chaos. "N'Kari spits on your grave, proud one." The daemon came forward, daring him to attack. He took his arm out from around Alarielle. She kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, too." Tyrion's heart felt light in his chest, but the feeling faded when he looked at the monstrosity that he would fight. "I shall die a happy elf, then!" he roared. "Defend thyself, spawn!" He charged, blade spinning. One swipe by a daemonic claw and he felt himself hurtled through the air. He struck a tree heavily, and felt those ribs that had not been shattered by the blow snap like brittle twigs. The daemon N'Kari loomed. One humanoid hand grasped him and rose him up to eye level for the daemon, crushing him painfully as it did. "Die, arrogant fool," the daemon said, and twisted its hand lightly. Even from the ground, Alarielle could hear the sound of her beloved's neck breaking. Then the daemon hurled the corpse to the ground. It struck like a discarded rag doll, and Alarielle tried not to look at the mass of red that had been Tyrion's chest. Then the daemon advanced upon her. She cowered in fear, knowing she could not outrun the thing, or out-fight it, or hide from it. One hand, still wet with Tyrion's blood, caressed her cheek. She cringed in abject terror. "Xaph ult-thul ytan heithaman!" A beam of blue light struck the daemon with great force, flinging it away from Alarielle. "Who dares.!" the daemon roared in fury. Another newcomer entered the clearing. "I dare," a weak-sounding but powerful voice came. The daemon moved for the figure, but the elf was ready. As Alarielle marveled despite herself at the incredible speed of the daemon, the elf snapped out some more harsh elven syllables. N'Kari howled again, but now could not move. The elf strode towards the daemon. "Begone from this place, spawn of Chaos!" the elf said, and slapped his hands, screaming another spell. Pinpoints of light appeared around the daemon. It could only howl in pain as they moved inwards, slowly killing it. Soon, the once-great beast gave a final scream that blasted through both the elves' eardrums and was gone, leaving only an evil vapor. The elf came towards Alarielle. "Highness! Where is my brother?" Now she could recognize the elf from descriptions Tyrion had given her before his death. Teclis, the mage twin. "Look," she said, and pointed in despair. Teclis looked at the corpse of his heroic brother and began weeping. For a time the two simply stood there, holding each other up, letting out their grief at the death of the one they both had loved. Then Teclis straightened. "Can you handle the body?" he said. Alarielle rose her bowed head. "I am not going to leave him here for the carrion-eaters." "I can take his body," she said proudly, and moved to heft it over her shoulder. It was heavy, and his blood stained her clothes unpleasantly, but this was a burden she would let no other carry. Together, the two elves left the clearing.  
  
Later. It was nearly dawn, and the bodies of the two assassins had just been found by the predators that live in all places. They moved inwards now, and began their feast. Another form entered the glade. A hunched and dark form. He whispered a word, and the foremost wolf burst into black flames, killing it instantly. The rest panicked and fled, leaving him alone. Malekith surveyed the scene of his failure slowly. Then a smile came to his withered lips, tugging his scarred face uncomfortably. He would make the high elves regret this day. 


	24. Chapter 24

The elves walked in silence. Teclis led the way, his plain wood staff tapping lightly but steadily in the undergrowth. His head, bearing the imposing horned bulk of the war- crown, was sunk low as if preoccupied. Very occasionally he would look up, but only to sweep an irritating piece of foliage out of the way. He did not speak. And so Alarielle walked, or sometimes staggered, behind, still bearing the bloodied corpse of the man she loved. It was a dead-weight on her shoulders - literally! - but she kept her head upright proudly. "Where are we headed to?" she asked, but the mage ignored her. They walked all that day, and Alarielle found herself well past the point of exhaustion. But her pride and willpower kept her stumbling forward until Teclis stopped and turned to face her. "We shall camp here," he said, the first thing he had said all day since Tyrion's death. She laid down the body carefully, and then collapsed on to a tree. "Why do we not burn the body?" Alarielle asked. "To keep it like this is cruelty to his spirit." Teclis found himself a comfortable seat on a small bank of moss and sat on it, laying down his staff before him. Then he reached up and removed the ornate war-crown as well. "I have heard," he began, "of a spell. It is known to a handful of the Loremasters only, and probably to no one else in this world." He looked intently at Alarielle, making firm eye contact. "Belannaer called it, Apotheosis." Alarielle whispered, "Re-birth?" Teclis nodded. "I have been trying to recall this spell. If I can master it, I can restore Tyrion." Alarielle's eyebrows shot up. "Restore." She found herself short of breath. The idea, that someone could recall the lost shade, restore Tyrion to her.it was too amazing, too wondrous, to be vocalized! Teclis noticed her look, and added cautiously, "Remember that no one alive has ever cast this spell. Remember that I do not even know how to, would have to re-invent it. The odds are slim - the odds go beyond slim!" Alarielle said, "As Isha is my witness, you must try." "I will. He was my brother."  
  
They camped for the night, eating what meager food Alarielle could forage for. She had grown adept at this during the month spent fleeing from the far-off Evercourt with Tyrion. Then in the morning they set off again for the coast, where Teclis promised a ship was waiting for them. At midday they reached the shore, a gentle bay with light waves. Alarielle found a secluded area and bathed while Teclis mentally contacted their ship. She scrubbed off two months' worth of dirt and blood, and emerged feeling rejuvenated. She wandered to where Teclis sat, on a large flat boulder, and sat herself down next to him, and next to the corpse. "They should be here in a few minutes," Teclis offered. Alarielle nodded. And they were, a small elven reaver, a fast and maneuverable vessel. The sails were dropped, as were the minor enchantments of the ship's mage who controlled wind and tide for them. A small rowing boat came towards them, and Alarielle was amazed to see the face of the one who came to greet them. "Naideth!" she cried, for it was Naideth Morningstar, a captain of Alarielle's Maiden Guard. "Majesty," Naideth said, "it warms my hearts to see you alive." "It is a mutual feeling, dear Naideth," Alarielle replied warmly. "I had thought you long dead in the ruins of the Evercourt." The boat was now on the shore, and so she and Teclis, bearing Tyrion's body between them, embarked. Naideth waited until they were settled, and then began rowing back to the reaver. "About thirty of our number escaped the battle. When the Evercourt was burnt - we thought you were gone - we gave up all hope and fled. Most were killed, but we escaped. We fled down here to Finuval Plains - an isolated valley in the Annulii Mountains of no importance whatsoever. The Felix Legion of Prince Ikarus was there already. Since then, the camp has been growing steadily. Teclis came across us, and told us he thought you were still alive, with Tyrion." She looked somewhat sadly at the corpse. "I guess that's him. Why are you carrying his body around? Why don't you burn it?" And so Alarielle told her friend of what had happened - how Tyrion had saved her from the Evercourt, how he had been killed defending her, how Teclis planned to attempt to resurrect his brother. Naideth nodded sympathetically. They reached the ship then, and climbed aboard: Teclis first, then Alarielle, and finally Naideth, before the coracle was hauled up by the crew, with Tyrion's corpse on it, and the ship set sail. For three days the reaver hugged the coastline on its way to the muster at Finuval Plain. They were forced to move slowly, for the dark elves had control of the seas, and more than once they were forced to hide. It was a torturous voyage, but at last the vessel entered a small bay. "We stop here," Naideth explained. "It's a short was to Finuval Plain." And so the fifteen elves disembarked, leaving the ship hidden until it would next be needed. They prepared supplies, and a litter for Tyrion, and then began to walk. The way soon became mountainous and steep, leading to tiny paths winding the sides of mountains, narrow so that they had to proceed in single file, with only scraggly bushes separating them from a long fall down the dull brown slope. But after an hour's walk, the small party reached Finuval Plains. Alarielle and Naideth were at the lead, and were the first to witness the great elven camp. Hundreds of brightly-coloured tents, amongst which a vast army of high elves moved. There were the banners, too, snapping proudly or hanging limp as the winds shifted. There was that of the Felix Legion, and over the other side ones signifying Thaindal of Tiranoc and Ethendir of Ellyrian. Mathirion of Caledor's colors proudly by those of the White Tower and the Phoenix Guard, and a thousand more that Alarielle did not recognize. All the elves still undefeated had come here. And so the company entered the camp, and they were met with cheers as they went by, for here at last was the Everqueen, the spiritual leader of Ulthuan, restored to them through the struggles of the heroic brethren. Here at last was hope. Teclis left them immediately, and took with his brother's body. It was still in pristine condition, due to a simple enchantment he had laid upon it. But it would take rest and focusing of his powers to attempt the task he had set before himself. Alarielle was led to the greatest tent in the encampment by Naideth and the rest of her handmaidens. There she fell exhausted upon the rugs and slept.  
  
Another newcomer arrived in the camp later that night. A battered but proud army entered, with grim-faced elves that drew respect wherever they appeared. They were veterans and heroes, every one, but especially the few who led them. They wandered on, clad in heavy cloaks to keep out the cold, went for a familiar tent. The pennant was clearly visible, due to the chill night wind, and so the three hurried inside quickly. Prince Ikarus looked up from his small seat as the three cloaked elves entered. He frowned and put down his goblet. "Who are you?" The men took off their coats. "Hello, Ikarus," the first greeted. Ikarus smiled lightly, but without any real feeling behind it. "Calarion. Tarran. Arhaindir." Calarion said, "We've just got here. It's a long voyage from Lothern." "Where is Tarthalion? Dead?" "He died about two weeks after we left Tor Yvresse. Killed by the dark elf, Mortharor." "Mortharor - that is their general, isn't it?" "Was their general, yes. I killed him. Are there some spare seats here somewhere?" Ikarus gestured. "Over there." "Thanks." The three took their seats and pulled them over to where Ikarus sat. He poured out a measure of wine for them, which they accepted gratefully. Calarion quickly filled Ikarus in with what had happened since the siege of Tor Yvresse, with the battles at Lothern and then the attack on Morband- Barad. "After I killed Mortharor, the dark elves lost their spirit for fighting. They fled, and we let them go. We moved on to Morband-Barad and stormed the foul place. There were only a few dark elves left, and they knew we must have had defeated their comrades already. We found Tarran in the dungeons and pulled him out, then demolished it stone by stone." "Good work," Ikarus said. "Here - the dark elves came back two weeks after you left to Tor Yvresse. We had to leave, it was that or be trapped and slaughtered. I assume the city fell, but I really don't know. We fled into the mountains. Skirmished with the dark elves there for a month, just a war of attrition. Finally defeated the force they'd sent after us and slipped in to here. Alarielle's handmaidens were here already, and so we sent word that we were mustering here. Thaindal and Ethendir from the west were the next to arrive. I don't know how they got over here, but they did, and from there our numbers have been growing steadily." "But do we have a chance anyway?" "I guess you don't know, having just arrived here. The Everqueen is alive, she's here." "The Everqueen?! Asuryan and Isha be praised. We have a chance." "And a few other of our friends are here too. Do you know Alatar?" "The Gwathri? I thought he died at Dagorannon." "Apparently he's been skirmishing, attack the dark elves from surprise, ever since then. He asked if any of the Sapherior line were here as soon as he arrived." "Amazing." "Not so amazing." A quiet voice. Another elf had entered the tent. He flipped back his cloak so that the four men could see his face. "Alatar!" Calarion hailed him. "Calarion." He nodded to the prince. "I have come from scouting." "What is it, Alatar?" Ikarus asked. Calarion was impressed by the quiet aura of command Ikarus suddenly exuded. The harsh fighting had made him develop greatly. "There is a dark elven army marching upon us. It should be here shortly after dawn." "How many?" Tarran asked immediately. "Maybe three hundred thousand dark elves, and one hundred thousand of their chaos allies. Twice what we have here." Ikarus was standing. "I'll spread the word. We must prepare for battle." 


	25. Chapter 25

Teclis breathed in, slowly. He sat in the middle of his tent, undisturbed by the cries of the elves preparing for their final stand, focusing his mind upon the weaves of magic. So he did not see the small dark tent, did not see his brother's corpse laid out in state, did not see the older elf Arathion, his father, who sat next to him solemnly and motionlessly. He did not smell the candles he had lit, nor did he feel their faint warmth upon his skin. His body sat in Finuval Plains, but his mind was one with the elements of magic, pure energy for those with the strength to grasp it. Teclis knew he could channel vast quantities of the power. He also knew that the amount he would use should snuff out the life of any mage, or rather melt them where they stood. His eyes snapped open. He knew what he had to do, but it was risky, it was highly difficult and it was fickle. He would restore life to the body and see if Tyrion's spirit, which lingered as the body had not been burnt, would return. His eyes opened. He breathed in, and then out again, deeply, with perfect focus. Arathion could see his son's eyes in the dim light. Normally a flat brown, they now were incandescent, so that he had to look away or be blinded by the brilliance of the energy that pulsed through his son's frail body. Teclis rose and walked over to the corpse slowly, and laid one hand on the chest. The hand pulsed and glowed, shearing through the dim light as it was channeled from Teclis' body to Tyrion's. The corpse's open eyes burst with a pure white light. His body crackled with sorcery. But it did not move. Teclis continued, placing his other hand on Tyrion's chest, now doubling the pulse that burst through from the winds of magic to the corpse. Both elves were transfigured now, turned into brilliant light. Arathion's eyes clamped shut to ward off the energy, but it burst through his eyelids so he turned his head. Teclis was on fire. Liquid agony raged through his veins. Boiling ice attacked his flesh. It was agony, and it was bliss, the sheer power that coursed trough him. The war-crown seared his forehead, pulsing with energy. Only its strength kept him alive now. Tyrion's body did not move. The sight broke Teclis' concentration. It was too much. He could not continue. With a gasp he fell, and the light was extinguished. Tyrion's body did not move. Teclis waved on the edge of unconsciousness. His mind battled with his body for supremacy as he tried to deny what had happened. He had failed! Then he saw Tyrion jerk, and his chest began to rise and fall again. Teclis' mind won; he forced himself up. And Tyrion opened his eyes, alive again. Teclis nearly collapsed in shock. Tyrion's gaze met his, and where the eyes had been a match to his before, now the irises were turned a brilliant white, a white to match the energy that had resurrected him. Tyrion cried out in wonderment, a primal scream of joy, and Teclis' voice joined him.  
  
The dark elves slowly. A palpable tide of blackness, they came over the hills into the mountain plain, and the high elves looked upon their numbers and were dismayed. And they saw from a distance a banner which struck more fear still into their hearts, the skull and eight-headed arrow floating on a purple and black field, and recognized it for what it was - the personal banner of Malekith, the Dreaded One, the Witch-King. He was here in person, leading the army himself. He had performed his own muster, and now prepared to smash the high elves now and for all. Should they fall here, the last of Ulthaun's defenders would be dead, and his ultimate victory would be assured. But there was hope, too, for the defenders, as they saw the mighty heroes who rapidly began mustering their forces as the dim light became lighter and lighter as the sun approached. On the left flank, opposite those chaos allies which Malekith had brought on to the field, the proud horsemen of Ellyrian and the chariot-people of Tiranoc, led by their lord and Prince Thaindal, from one of the oldest lineages of Ulthuan. Their beautiful steeds stamped impatiently, echoing their masters' wish for the battle to commence. One the right flank fluttered the sword and sun that had been the emblem of the line of Tathel Sapherior since the time of Aenarion the Defender, now borne by Calarion. His name was spoken over the camp as the elf who had killed Darsil the Lord Assassin and Mortharor, the dark elven general, and all agreed that he was a worthy successor to his illustrious father and to his ancestors. With him stood Prince Ikarus of Caledor, Arhaindir Moonhand, and many more. And in the centre, the largest force, to take the brunt of the dark elven assault. But their champions were the greatest of all. The last of the handmaidens of the Everqueen, and with them their mistress, restored to them at last despite the odds. The weary mage Teclis, leaning on a beautifully-crafted new staff gifted to him by Alarielle, one that gave him the strength he lacked so that he would never need the herbal potions again. And riding amidst the forces, crying words of encouragement and of glory, shining like a beacon of Asuryan, like Aenarion the Defender come again, Tyrion. Covered in gifts from all quarters for his heroism, equipped with the finest weapons the high elves possessed. From his father, the runesword Sunfang, the ancestral sword, embued with the majesty of Asuryan; and the Dragon Armor, worn by great Aenarion himself, beautifully crafted in gold with techniques mortal hands could never again repeat. Hanging from his chest a pendant from Alarielle, heart shaped, that would protect his mind and remind him always of her love. And beneath his legs he could feel the powerful muscles of the most splendid gift of all, from Ethendir of Ellyrian, the finest horse alive. Sleek and pure white, Malhandir had a grace and intelligence no other horse possessed. Tyrion had never liked horses overly before, but Malhandir seemed more than a horse, a companion, a fellow warrior, sleek and mighty. And regiment after regiment of spearmen, of archers, of seaguard, of silver helms, of all the elven regiments, prepared for battle. They had hope on their side, but against the enemy hope would no longer be enough. And the dark elven tide advanced. Numberless amounts of the fallen cousins, and in their midst Malekith himself. The dark elves stopped their approach when they were all within Finuval Plain. By them, the bestial monsters and the human servants of chaos were still too. No word issued out as the two armies simply watched each other, preparing for the fray. The silence was broken by a lone horseman. He came from the dark elven lines and then stopped, half way between the two armies. With a single smooth movement he drew two straight swords from his back, and then stopped and eyed the high elves. "I am Urian Poisonblade!" he cried. "Greatest of the Assassins! Who will dare fight me?!" The high elves were still for a time, until a warrior's voice was heard. "I am Arhalien of Yvresse, druchii! I shall show you how real elves fight!" Arhalien came forward. He was clad in ithilmar armour, and bore a halberd. He had fought at Tor Yvresse, and then with Ikarus. He was a skilled and deadly veteran. He approached Poisonblade and rose his halberd in salute. Urian saluted. Urian moved first, lashing one sword low. Arhalien's halberd caught the sword, and then spun to the other side to catch the other sword blow. Urian's second sword tore through the wooden shaft of the weapon, and through into Arhalien's chest. A spray of blood, and the elf hero was dead. "Pitiful!" Urian taunted, flicking Arhalien's blood off his sword. "Truly pitiful. That is all you have?" There came a stirring from under the sword and sun banner, but it was drowned out by a more powerful voice. "Let us see how you fare against a White Lion!" The White Lions were a force of forest-dwelling scouts who came from the northern province of Chrace. They were reputed to be very strong, and this warrior hefted a massive double-headed axe with one hand. His name was Korhian Ironglaive, and he was the captain of the White Lions. There were few in Ulthuan who were his equal. Again Urian struck first, this time pivoting on the spot with his blades leading, a strategy that few could match. But Korhian did, parrying twice and then lashing out with deadly speed and force at the dark elf's legs in the split-second his back was turned. Urian stopped the corkscrew and vaulted lightly over the axe, landing in a roll that brought him back to his knees as Korhain began raining blows on him. Urian's twin blades struck in an 'x' shape, catching the axehead between them. And Urian stood up, somehow forcing up the axe. They disengaged violently and Urian's swords headed for Korhian's gut, but the wily elf hopped back so that the swords missed. A quick sweep of the axe drove both out wide, and then Korhain's axe was screaming in for Urian's throat. Urian ducked off to one side, and then sprang back the moment that the axe had passed him. Korhian realized now he was dangerously open, and began swinging his axe back to ward off the deadly swords. But Urian's leg snapped up and caught him square in the head. The force of the kick from the seemingly scrawny assassin sent Korhain staggering back, and it was all over. Urian's swords crossed so they were positioned over his opposite shoulders and then let swing. The blades met each other in the middle, at Korhian's neck, and then kept going. In a spray of gore, the head spun off, to land at the ground at the feet of the horrified high elven spearmen. Urian yawned. "So this is it?" he snarled. "Your best warriors die that quickly? You aren't elves at all; you're humans. Why, I could just walk up to your Everqueen now and kill her, and none of you would be able to stop me." And he began pacing slowly towards Alarielle, who stood at the front of the lines, proud and upright. The high elves did not move, paralyzed by fear in the same way a deer will before its life ends. Then a sword flashed. Urian spun, his own sword leading. Blood sprayed, and there was a howl. Urian clutched the gash on his arm, glaring at the elf whose blade was stained with his blood. "Touch her and I will kill you," Tyrion promised. 


	26. Chapter 26

The brilliant golden beams of the sun began to light up the mountains as Asuryan began his ascent into the heavens, heralding a new dawn, a new day. The motionless armies of elves simply stood. The wind had dropped down now; banners hung slack from their poles and the great griffins of the high elves had perched down as their riders gave them time to rest before the battle began. The focus of every elf there was upon the two champions who now eyed each other motionlessly. The ornate golden plate of Tyrion gleamed brilliantly, and his runesword pulsed faintly with great power as he held it, point low, in both hands. His white cape hung low. He did not move. Opposite him, the Witch-King's champion Urian Poisonblade had taken up a battle stance. The blood flowing from the gash in his arm had lessened - it was a light wound, and of no real consequence. The black cloak was thrown back, revealing a fine corselet of Har Graef black steel. One sword was held before him, the other behind him, point facing away, so that a quick attack would open Tyrion's gut. They stood their ground, each respectful of the other's skills. Tyrion had slain three assassins at once, including the most skilled of their number, and even confronted a daemon afterwards. Urian had just slain two of Ulthuan's greatest warriors, including the peerless Korhian. Tyrion's white eyes narrowed. His hands clenched. Urian's face changed as somehow he recognized the elflord before him. It contorted with fury, and even maybe a touch of fear. But his stance stayed unaltered. He did not move. His swords did not waver. And Tyrion recognized Urian. Something, somehow - but he could not place him. They stayed there for a time, eyeing each other, gathering their strength. Testing the other's patience and resolve. Then they moved towards each other, blades flying. Tyrion's runesword drove up and down, forcing Urian's first sword away. Urian swung his other foot around so that he was facing the high elf square on, and whipped his other blade around to catch Tyrion's exposed neck. Tyrion's blade came up and parried the blow, then brought his sword down in an arc, which Urian spun out away from. The scimitars came screaming in again, and now Tyrion ducked, the imposing bulk of Aenarion's armour not hindering him in the slightest. He pulled himself up, and lashed at Urian with a one-handed swipe of his sword. Urian danced back, and Tyrion followed, hacking again. His blow was parried, and the other scimitar spun as Urian twirled it before sending it howling for his throat. But Tyrion drove his free right hand into Urian's gut, throwing him backwards. The downed assassin landed lightly, and rolled as Tyrion followed after him, returning to his feet. Tyrion struck twice, and both times his attacks were parried, but now he had the dark elf on the defensive. He struck again, forcing the assassin's right sword out wide, then brought the blade across, Urian's a hairsbreadth behind. Blood sprayed, and the two warriors watched each other cautiously. Tyrion's sword had torn along the inside of Urian's right arm, forcing him to drop his scimitar as blood flowed freely. Urian's sword had narrowly missed Tyrion's jugular and had torn a light furrow along his neck. They panted hard as they waited for a time to regain their breath. Neither had ever been challenged like this before. Then they were upon each other. Urian clutched his single remaining scimitar with his right hand, his left hanging limply at his side. They hammered into each other, slashing, lunging, and ducking. Their blades whirled in a storm of steel. They locked in an overhead parry. Vuthil's blade forced hard at the high elf's, slowly forcing Tyrion to the ground despite all of Tyrion's strength. The assassin was far stronger than he looked, and Tyrion was aghast when his own white eyes stared into flaming red orbs. There was something seriously.wrong about Urian Poisonblade. Tyrion kicked up with one foot, catching Urian in the gut. The dark elf staggered, and Tyrion swung his blade out and prepared to continue his assault. Sudden black bands of energy caught him and slowed him. Tyrion was frantic now. He could barely move as the pulsing light rushed over him, and as all too quickly Urian Poisonblade came back in for the kill. Then another pulse of light, this one warm and nurturing, from the small heart-shaped pendant that Alarielle had given him. It caught the black bonds and banished them, freeing Tyrion. His sword came up and he parried the blow that would have killed him, and the conflict continued.  
  
Teclis knew. He felt the emanations of magic that came across the field, and recognized them for what they were. Malekith was trying to aid his champion. His hands came together quickly, and with the sound of the clap he sunk into the noise, blotted out the world, and became one with the other world that lay parallel to it, the world of the magic. He began to focus his attentions on the pulses and disturbances that he felt, and began to cancel them out systematically. Almost immediately he could feel another mind pushing against his, trying to fling his out of this place - and out of existence. It was the Witch-King. He fought back frantically, focusing the full might of his mind upon the battle, bringing the considerable force of the Warcrown into use. His mind stopped its rapid movement out of the Winds of Magic, and stayed still. But he could still feel the implacable might of the Witch-King assaulting his mind. They stayed there for a while, the mental energies of the two clashing in an assault that would have devastated the entire valley had they been used there. Teclis brought the sheer willpower of the most powerful mind of Ulthuan's defenders against the skills of one who had prepared six thousand years for this battle. It was a close match. Sweat poured down Teclis' face, coming in a waterfall off his nose. He was rapidly tiring. And the strength of the Witch-King was not abating.  
  
Sword against sword, they spun, ducking and vaulting to avoid the deadly blades and the swift attacks with hands or legs, Tyrion and Urian's battle continued. Then suddenly Urian ceased spinning, and rammed his blade straight forward. Tyrion flung himself out of the way as best he could, and the assassin's sword cleft through air only. "You are slowing down, Tyrion," the assassin growled, the first words he had spoken in the duel. "I think I shall have you soon." Tyrion scrambled to his feet and brought Sunfang up to a ready position. "Big words. I'm not dead yet." he spat. Their swords swung again. The ring of steel. "At last I shall have your head," Urian jeered. "Just as you had mine!" And finally Tyrion recognized the dark elf. "Vuthil!" he gasped. Urian sneered. "You knew me as that. You killed me as that!" He struck harder, as if the memories fuelled him. Tyrion could only fall back against that might. "I was the greatest warrior alive! I had killed everything! I knew sword styles that had died out hundreds of years ago! I could defeat a daemon in combat! And you, miserable wretch, you killed me with a vile trick! You cheated!" Tyrion did not respond. He was too shocked at the unmasking of his nemesis, and his tongue was frozen. "But the Dread One in forgiving! He gave me a second chance! He reanimated my body and put my new soul into it! I am Vuthil, and I am N'Kari the daemon who killed you once and will do so again!" Vuthil rained mad blows upon Tyrion, and the high elf fell back, parrying as best he could. "This shall be my vengeance! I shall kill you now, here in front of your precious Everqueen! Then I shall kill her, and your pitiful brother, and Ulthuan's shall be ours at last!" Finally, Tyrion failed to parry. The blow struck him squarely in his chest, flinging him to the ground. The Dragon Armour saved him from death, but Vuthil loomed over him. "Die, damn you!" The curved blade rose up, as Tyrion lay uselessly on the ground. It caught a ray of light, and turned into liquid gold. Then Tyrion rolled, using his final trick. Vuthil watched in shock as Tyrion brought his blade up and then onward. It moved with a speed the assassin had no longer thought Tyrion capable of, a speed he had carefully hoarded and hidden. It struck the black chain shirt and burst through it, deep into Vuthil's body, and then came out the other side. Vuthil froze in shock and agony as a spray of blood poured over the now crouching Tyrion. He stared futilely at the hilt which Tyrion firmly held in both hands, which was drenched in his blood. He tried to finish his blow, but found he could not. The muscles in his body refused to work, and his hand released the sword. It fell and lay on the blood-soaked grass besides him. Tyrion withdrew the sword. More blood, and Vuthil was lying on the ground. "A trick," he hissed, his voice weak and nearly inaudible. "The oldest trick in the book. You killed me with the oldest trick in the book." Tyrion's hard white eyes offered no reply, and he did not speak. Then Vuthil shuddered and died. With a great cry of anger, the dark elves and their chaos-warped allies began to charge across the field towards the lone warrior. A heartbeat later, and the high elven warhost charged as well. The sun finally past the mountain-tops, and its warm rays washed over the field. Here, now, the fate of Ulthuan was to be decided. 


	27. Chapter 27

The dawn-sprayed field stank of Vuthil's blood, and the unholy presence of the daemon's soul tainted Tyrion's senses. Dazed by the sudden end of the fighting, he slowly raised his head, and gazed at the vast host that bore down on him. He rose his sword, and prepared for them to come, to sell his life as dearly as possible. But from the high elven lines, like a ray of white lightning, came Malhandir, the great horse easily outpacing the other horses. It burst from their ranks towards Tyrion. "Malhandir!" Tyrion screamed, seeing his one chance at life. The steed came to him. He pulled himself on to the pure white back, and brandished Sunfang as the horse reared and spun. And then the first of the dark elves were upon him. Screaming their song of blood, a band of five reached him first. Malhandir moved instinctively, and Tyrion marveled his empathy with the horse, for the intelligent elf horse knew his every thought. Sunfang blazed as it cleft the first in twain, and Malhandir's hooves crushed the next dark elf's skull. And then the tides were upon them. The individual cries were drowned out in the chaotic roar as the two elven armies met each other. Tyrion fought with fury and skill at the centre now, abandoning tactics. This was not a duel, with two skilled opponents using tactics and wits to best the other. This was pitched battle, and the one who could slaughter the fastest would win. Tyrion cleft down dark elves with every strike. None could stand before him in his fury. And echoing him, the high elves fought with all their passion. Even so, it was not enough.  
  
Calarion and Ikarus found themselves fighting together. Together, the two great heroes commanded the right flank, and under the sword and book banner of the line of Sapherior and the three silver stars of the Felix Legion, they held their ground desperately. For all their skill, they were heavily outnumbered. For all their skill, they were losing. Calarion's great golden sword flew, tearing through a dark elf's chest and killing him with a spray of gore. Then back across, and a dark elf was falling back, blood spurting from his throat. A dark elven blade caught him hard on the shoulder, swinging him around. His blade came back, and the severed torso slid off as the legs collapsed. But now Calarion was moving slower, and another sword struck him, opening up his cheek. Blood ran down his face. He ignored it, and swung again, taking this dark elf at the shoulder and opening his chest from there to his hip. The next sword hit his chest. And another came for his sword arm. The golden blade skittered away in the churned-up ground. Calarion staggered back, and prepared for the next blow to open his head. "Ulthuan! Ulthuan!" Tarran Angedhel led the counterattack, a blood-smeared band of the Siltholrim. Swords scythed as they hit the warriors. Blood sprayed, as one of the knights, Yethirin, pulled Calarion to his feet. A dark elf came at him then, but the loyal high elf swung, and the dark elf fell back, his throat torn open. "Many thanks, Yethirin," Calarion said, and grasped his sword again. A dark elven knight hurtled out of the battle now, mounted on a ravening lizard. Its great jaws snapped as it came forwards, and the rider aimed his lance at Calarion. Calarion spun, and raised his shield in futile defense. But the rider had counted without Yethirin. He sprang into the dark elf knight, knocking him clear from the lizard. Swords hacked desperately at each other, and one rose - Yethirin, bloody but alive. The cold one sprang at him, and the silver helm flung his sword, so that it tore into the beast's chest, opening it up. It shuddered and fell heavily. Yethirin turned to Calarion slowly, and Calarion could see how his friend was hurt. "Sleep in peace and awake in joy," Yethirin said, as if pronouncing it over his own corpse. Then, more lucidly, he addressed Calarion, and the elf prince saw the great wound now across the knight's chest. "See you at Asuryan." Then Yethirin fell, and Calarion knew that his friend was dead, another casualty of the day - as he himself would soon be. Across the other side of the banners, Ikarus had a clearer view of what they were against. Across the field the elves were locked in bloody melees. And above them griffin riders clashed with hordes of fell harpies in intricate aerial maneuvers. And before him now the wave of cavalry that had struck them. Ikarus was a superior warrior, though. He could sense the rest of his personal band around him, fighting furiously. Helios was crying something as he directed a band of spearmen before dark elven knights hit into them. A dark elf came for him. A quick step aside, and a downward strike, and the dark elf hung limply in his saddle. Another cold one bore down on him. He swung again, opening its chest up, and struck off the head of its rider as the cold one fell. A sword struck his helm, making his head ring. He spun, blade leading, only for a parry. The dark elven warlord struck again, and this time Ikarus ducked, lashing his blade across from left to right. It struck the cold one, causing its side to explode in gore. The dark elf vaulted off from the dead mount and eyed Ikarus mockingly, hefting his blade now in two hands. Ikarus charged, and any distractions were swallowed up by the sound of steel on steel. But the dark elf was his equal. He lunged, only to find his opponent not where he had expected. The dark elf stood to one side, and calmly slammed one steel-plated fist into Ikarus' face. The high elf fell back with a shriek of pain. Blood oozed from his torn face. With a quick slash, the dark elf tried to cleave Ikarus in twain. Ikarus hopped back, and the sword caught his forehead, running down to his chin. Ikarus caught a pool of blood in his leather-gloved hand as it ran down his ruined face. Then he flung it aside, and grasped his sword with two hands, daring the dark elf to come closer. The warlord sneered at him.  
  
Thaindal screamed, head thrown back so that his long gray hair streamed behind him. Stormcleaver his halberd howled as it arced through the air, and a spray of blood came as it hewed down the man-beast he fought. Foul things they were! The dark elves, while twisted and demented fiends, still were elves, with an elf's grace and elf's poise. But these - things - were simply ravening brute berserkers, a foul compound of sickeningly ugly human features and vicious animals. He took the halberd again backwards, catching an eagle-faced beastmen in the beak, tearing clear off the lower half of its' head. The thing fell back from his speeding chariot, and was crushed by the chariot immediately behind him. Before him his charioteer Elrandis guided him onwards, making the team of the four white elf steeds move to the slightest touch of the reins - all that was ever needed for the fantastic beasts - and the chariot swerved to avoid a thick mass of the man-things. They came, howling like the animals they resembled, swine and bulls and goats and more superimposed by the taint of Chaos. Thaindal swung Stormcleaver again and blood sprayed. He cleft them down and again they kept moving. An elven cream made the Prince turn his head. The chariot of the skilled she-elf Vaneira had fallen, pulled down by the beastmen. One wheel splintered, and the other spinning uselessly in the air. There was nothing he could do for her, no way he could have had Elrandis turn the chariot. He kept his eyes averted from the grisly end of one of his finest and tried to ignore the slobbering noises of bestial hunger being fulfilled. Something reared up before him, and the white horses panicked. Thaindal himself could barely repress a shudder as the massive bladed club held by the eight foot monstrosity struck and splintered the front of the chariot. The chariot stopped, ruined beyond any hope. And its stopping was aided by how the large metal spear set between the middle horses struck the monster's gut, bent somewhat, and then punctured the stomach fully, sending bloody froth coming out the other side. Elrandis and Thaindal dismounted, the charioteer drawing his short-bladed sword. They could barely hear amidst the sound of slaughter. Five beastmen came at them, swinging axes and great swords. Elrandis struck out, and his blow was rewarded by the spray of blood from a shoulder and a bellow of pain. Thaindal's own halberd caught another, shearing him in twain. The prince freed his weapon in time to see the wounded beastman raise his axe and strike Elrandis a powerful blow square on his head. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Thaindal screamed as his friend's head disappeared in a mass of red and gray gore. His lashed with the halberd, severing the beastman's arm before burying the head of the halberd squarely in its chest. But now three of the monsters were on him, and he was all alone. The lord of Tiranoc shook his flowing mane, as if in denial of the odds, and charged. He felt his halberd sink into flesh, and he pulled it out, the roar in his ear nearly deafening him. He was surprised when the blade struck him. It caught his left shoulder and sheared down into his torso. With a surprised grunt, Thaindal toppled, Stormcleaver falling from hands that could no longer grasp, still somehow alive after the terrible wound, despite blood spraying messily. But he was not alive for much longer.  
  
The old Loremaster held his sword tightly in withered hands. He'd not wanted to be here. He was not a warrior. He was not a battle mage skilled in the use of fire and lightning. He was simply old Belannaer, Loremaster, wise and knowledgeable. He wasn't a warrior now. He hadn't been a warrior before when he was young either. Yes, like all elves he had been trained in the use of the sword and bow, but never had he been particularly adept at such things. He had no inclination to be here, leading the Swordmasters of the Tower into battle against their ancient enemy, and usually his word would have been enough. But the word of the one who had taken the War-crown of Saphery was worthless. How he rued that action at times! He had known, all that time ago, that were young Teclis to leave the Tower without it, he would die and events would turn out far darker. Without it, this battle would not be taking place - as they would all have been dead already. He still knew it was the right action. But when the ambitious Herulach had discovered the loss of the War-crown, he had turned it into a great weapon against his once-mentor and now rival for power with the destruction of poor Cyeos' mind. Look at Belannaer! he had said. Look at this thief-Loremaster who pilfers our treasures! And so now, having lost all the power and influence he had ever had, he had been sent here to lose his life as well with a single group of the Swordmasters. Besides him Seridan nodded gravely. The veteran captain spun his twin blades in intricate arcs before him, daring the dark elves to appear. Around two of them, the rest of the elves stood, clad in long ithilmar mail coats and grasping their fine greatswords cautiously, waiting for the dark elves. And there they came, howling towards them, brandishing sword axe both, long scaled cloaks banner-like behind them. The Swordmasters moved to meet them, and steel flew. Several came at Belannaer, and the Loremaster gestured, invoking a power he abhorred with all his soul. Flames sparked from his hand and raced down it into a dark elf, snuffing out his life instantly with ease. Sickening. Seridan sprang into the main mob, twin swords flying gracefully. The shorter sword parried with ease as the longer tore clean kills through throat and chest. Another broke free and sprang at Belannaer, and the old Loremaster was too startled to react with a spell. He jerked his silver blade up, and watched with shock as the dark elf ran onto it. The force of the impact jarred the sword clear from Belannaer's hands. The dark elf staggered onwards, and Belannaer was repulsed by the bloody spittle and the crazed look of the dying elf's face. The dark elf rose his axe and lowered. A weak blow from the last strength he possessed - but still enough to strike deep into Belannaer. Blood flowed over the horrified mage's robes, staining them deeply. He still had enough presence of mind to wrench the sword free of the corpse, and enough strength of mind to keep on his feet. About half the Swordmasters were dead or dying now, and the rest traded blows with a different foe, scantily clad but raging Witch-elves. Their twin scimitars drooled poison and they attacked with frenzied abandon. They reminded Belannaer of nothing so much as an orgy of blood. Seridan stood still, blades tearing through bared flesh. He showed no sign of discomfort, so perfect was his concentration. He was a killing machine. Belannaer shifted his sword and joined him, preparing again the repulsive spells that would obliterate his opponents' souls and set fire to their minds. He would do what he must do.  
  
Arhaindir Moonhand readied his longbow. His small force clustered around him, clad in the blue and red of Nagarythe or the green and white of Avelorn. He could see his captains - Cedwyn Brighteye, gruff and calm, the eternal veteran and master archer; the spears of Telimis the great-hearted and brave; and his wife Isil'wen, Noble- Born of Avelorn. Though she was not really a captain - her spirit was easily a match for his own. As it should be, he reminded himself with an inward smile, reminding himself as he always did before the battles of happier moments so that should he die he would go to Morai-Heg thinking only of the good moments of his life. He recalled the dark elf raid a scant twenty years ago. He'd gone to Avelorn to pursue a band of raiders who had fled into the forests. His men had found them and hewn him down so easily, but on the way home he chose, on a whim, to stop at the Evercourt to rest for the night. And what a good decision it had been! There he had met the fair lady, and love had soon sparked. She'd taught him to look past the darkness in his soul, to become a better elf. In exchange he had left his home, married her a scant five years later. And their beautiful daughter appeared soon, his dear Si'anelle. They were pleasant memories indeed. His hands felt the smooth wood of his great bow. He was a master shot, and proficient enough with his mage-wrought blade. He would lead the small force that remained of his household, and they would do what damage they could. His force had been held back from the initial charge as a small force to harass the dark elven lines. Two forces of archers - his own highly trained skirmishers and Isil'wen's marksmen - and one force of spears. He could only hope it was enough to make a difference. He could see from the concealed position the sights of the battle. Elf spearmen fought in vicious swirling melees, and blood stained the entire vista. The cries of the dying and the cries of pain or victory formed themselves in Arhaindir's ears into some unholy cacophony. He turned his head as his leather-gloved hands took one arrow and set it in place on his bow. "Time to move," he whispered, and the elves prepared. How many would die this day? Looking over the course of the battle, the enraged dark elves pouring through the valiant high elven defenses, he wondered whether he should be wondering how many would survive this day. And Arhaindir's elves broke from their cover. At a sprint they moved forward, weapons held ready. Arhaindir's skirmishers were at the fore, bows held parallel to the ground, arrows nocked. A dark elf sprang at them, his barbed blade smeared with the blood of the fallen. Arhaindir whipped his bow around and released his arrow swiftly. The shaft struck the druchii in the chest and punched directly through, sending him toppling backwards. Arhaindir paid him no more mind and swiftly aimed another arrow. The dark elf was followed by more. Clambering over the corpses of a group of Prince Ikarus' Felix Guard, dark elves flung themselves at Moonhand. His elves released their shafts, sending several on to the pile, their blood to mix with those they had slain. The rest came into melee with the skirmishers. Arhaindir dropped his greatbow and tore free the rune-carved ilthilmar longsword. The skirmishers fell back, blades weaving dexterously in defense. And then they melted away, through the lines of Telimis' spears, and the dark elves were confronted with a barrier of bristling silver spear-tips. They charged in, and the air was filled with blood and battle. Arhaindir saw Telimis fall. The great-hearted elf's spear was knocked from his hands, and the dark elves swarmed over him. Swords rose and fell swiftly, and Arhaindir gave a cry of anguish as his friend was slaughtered. Brandishing his blade, he ran in towards the corpse. And he was aware of the presence of more dark elves. Many more than the small group he had lured in. An entire regiment of dark elves was tearing at them, and they were outnumbered maybe three to one, maybe more. With horror he could see Isil'wen trying to fend off attacks from vicious Black Guard, Malekith's private soldiers with her long hunting knife. She was not skilled in combat initially, and a knife was a poor weapon against a halberd. Moonhand flung himself on to the Black Guardsman. His blade flew with the skills he had picked up fighting at Tor Yvresse and Lothern during this long war. He knew how dark elves fought, and now unleashed all his experience in a deadly whirlwind of sword-blows. The Black Guardsman fell, and Arhaindir was at Isil'wen's side. "It's a good thing I got to you in time," he said, blade fending off attacks. Isil'wen turned to face Arhaindir, mouth opened. For an instant he thought she was about to say something, but he realized the truth when he saw the agony on her face, the blood speckling her lips, and the barbed halberd- head embedded deep in her side. The halberd came out, and Isil'wen fell. And Arhaindir screamed, a primal shriek of rage and loss and pure anguish. Tears ran down his grimacing face as he took the longsword in both hands. "Die, you druchii bastards!" he wept, swinging his sword like a berserker, charging into the midst of the Black Guard, the members of the Witch-King's personal army. He cut down about twenty of them before a halberd caught his arm, tearing through it so that it tore a huge chunk of flesh off and forced Arhaindir to drop the blade. He could hardly see, the tears were so thick, but he drew with his left hand his own dagger and waved it, daring the Black Guard to come on. They formed a circle around him, cautious now of this brave and deadly fool, advancing slowly. It took a long time for Moonhand to die. But when he did, covered with wounds grievous enough to fell any three elves, his knife broken but smeared with the blood of his foes, his blood running into the mud he had churned up, the light leaving his eyes, he whispered two final words. The first was "Isil'wen." The second was "Si'anelle."  
  
And in the middle of the chaos, in a world that was parallel to and separate from where the elves fought and Arhaindir Moonhand had just breathed his last, the mage Teclis still battled with the immeasurable might of Malekith, the Witch-King. His every muscle was tensed as he strained, but try as he could the sheer power of the dark elf was beyond reckoning. There was no way that he could resist. And when he fell, as fall he must, Malekith would be free to dedicate his entire attention to the battle. And all the High Elves would die then. Calarion, Ikarus, Tyrion, Alarielle, Belannaer, all of them. There was only him left. Only he, left against the strength of the lord of the dark elves. And it was too much. His concentration snapped, like a tense harp-string which has suddenly been slit. Malekith's mind was all over his immediately, and the end was upon him. But new supplies of strength flowed into his body. Teclis, he heard. Use the staff. Tyrion's voice. And the new might of his brother's mind, strengthened after his saving of the Everqueen and his resurrection, poured into him, revitalizing him. With a thought, he encapsulated Malekith's mind in a ball of light, flung back his enemy's attack. Then he felt out the magical emanations of his staff, as they flowed into this world. It gave him strength. Maybe it could restore the strength of his mind as well. And it could. Linked in mind now, the full willpower of one who had died and returned, and the force of will of the great mage, united. Malekith's own energies shrank back, aware of its sudden vulnerability. But together the brothers returned the assault, a blast of pure white that tore through the winds of magic after Malekith's fleeing presence, intent on blasting the dark one out of existence at last.  
  
Malekith's mind returned to his body. He could feel again, as he always had been able to feel, the pain of his scars, the burning fires of Asuryan, as he always would feel. And for the first time in five thousand years, the Witch-King was afraid. For he had found at last his two-faced man, as Khaine had promised. For the twin brothers were as one mind, one soul, in two bodies. The peerless warrior and the peerless mage. And there was no way he could ever defeat them. For a month he had felt the sensation of the war somehow slipping from his grasp. The muster, the continued inability of his agents to find Alarielle or the war-crown (and how he cursed that short-sightedness now!), the report of Mortharor's death and the foiling of the attack on Lothern. The white bolt of pure magic manifested itself in front of Malekith's chariot, and the ancient elf reached twisted fingers to a ring he wore. A simple spell, and he would be far away from here. Then his chariot exploded in white flames.  
  
A massive fireball mushroomed into the sky, a cloud of white flame, blinding the eyes of all who saw it, coming from the centre of the dark elven ranks. Malekith, the elves said with despair or amazed joy on their lips. The Witch-King, scourge of the high elves for six thousand years, was dead. Tyrion's blade was doused in dark elven blood, but he saw the explosion and the sudden loss of morale of the dark elves. And somehow he knew what had happened, had the image of a white fireball and of his mind joining with Teclis'. He twitched his knees and Malhandir responded immediately. He knew now that there was a chance. Malhandir brought him through the ranks of the dark elves, a lone warrior pressing to hold their advantage. Sunfang cleft through dark elves, through scaled monstrosities and bat-winged harpies. And then he found himself confronting the heart of the army, the huge bannerpole with the skull and arrow emblazoned upon it. The best warriors of the dark elves moved forward to intercept them. But compared to Vuthil, they were mere amateurs. Tyrion's golden blade hewed them down with ease, and Malhandir trampled them into the ground. Malhandir reared, and with a mighty blow Tyrion struck the bannerpole and cleft clean through it. The black oak splintered, the skull and star tumbled slowly, washed by the morning light. It struck the ground heavily amidst cries of rage and despair. Tyrion urged Malhandir onwards. Sunfang cleft a path to the fallen banner, and Malhandir trampled the standard into the ground.  
  
Ikarus discarded his shield and grasped his long blade in both hands. Opposite him, the dark elf grimaced wickedly, savouring the moment of victory. "And now I will be Kaeul, slayer of the great Prince Ikarus!" the dark elf jeered. Ikarus laughed. "You want my head?" He gestured. "Come get it." But he spoke with confidence he did not feel. His concentration was broken with the agony of the face wound, and he would make mistakes now, mistakes which Kaeul would be quick to capitalize upon. And if Kaeul did not kill him, then another of this numberless tide would. "Caledor!" he roared, and sprinted towards the dark elf, blade held low behind him. "Caledor and Ulthuan!" Their blades crashed together with terrible force. Ikarus' blade flew up in a vicious arc to over his shoulder, and Kaeul parried in mid-swing the blow that would have opened his gut. Ikarus disengaged, pulled his blade back over his head and slashed, but the dark elf set his feet and caught it up high. Their blades locked, and Ikarus strained to throw back the dark elf. But Kaeul was stronger, and he sent Ikarus tumbling back on to the torn-up turf. He followed immediately, trying to kill Ikarus quickly. But the Caledorian was a canny warrior. He rolled swiftly out of the way, hooking one leg between Kaeul's, causing the dark elf to fall with an oath. And then Ikarus used the impetus of his roll to come back to his feet. They met each other again, Kaeul on his knees and Ikarus standing. Ikarus' blade hammered down, raining impassioned blows upon the dark elf, while Kaeul's blade frantically tried for defense of some sort. But Kaeul was slowly working his way back up to his feet, while Ikarus' arms tired. Then the white fireball rose into the sky, and the huge black and purple standard toppled, and Kaeul froze from shock. His final error. Ikarus' blade caught him square on the crest of his ornate bat-winged helm, sending the dark elf back and tearing the wing off. Then Ikarus' foot snapped forward and caught the Kaeul in the gut. The impact forced Kaeul back again. Ikarus' next blow struck the dark elf under one armpit, sheer momentum making it cleave onward through black plate. The ilthilmar blade burned a bright red as it cleft through the druchii. Then it was flying out the other side, and Kaeul's severed upper torso landed on the ground with a wet splat next to the rest of the body. Ikarus strode off, ignoring the corpse.  
  
Ethendir's horse reared and the elf Prince slashed a quick blow at the red- plated chaos warrior, tearing through an exposed throat. The left flank was not holding up well. Thaindal of Tiranoc, their commander, was dead, and the bestial fiends and plated monsters seemed to be immune to any damage that the horse-people could throw at them. Their spirit was waning. And the messages he received from the other parts of the battle showed a similar state of affairs reigned. Slowly, the high elves were being defeated. He could see to his left the two mages of Thaindal's household, the brother and sister Dairsyn and Alaesur, galloping through the carnage, flames springing from their fingertips, tearing into the dark elves. He smiled grimly. Those two were far more competent then they had a right to be. But they were not enough to win a battle. That he would have to do - on this flank, at least. His eyes picked out a massive figure, an immense monstrosity of plates and spikes and chains. Swinging a greatsword that might weigh as much as Ethendir himself. He turned his horse towards it, seized a broken shaft of a lance from the ground, and set off at a gallop. Around him, the Ellyrian and Tiranoc elves fought valiantly to clear him a path through the battle. "Chaos fiend!" he howled, his voice carrying across to the monster. It turned, raising the sword as the single crazed horseman bore down upon it. The lance struck it then, in a clear spot at the side of the breastplate. With the force and weight of the charge behind it, it blasted through the plate and in a spray of blood sunk deep into the chaos lord's chest. But somehow the monster did not fall. The chaos lord rose up ponderously, and Ethendir could see that he had gravely wounded it, but still he hefted his immense sword and faced the elf defiantly. "Elf," the chaos lord boomed in an inhuman, warped voice. "Die." And then they charged at each other, blades flying. Ethendir's light sword hit the plate armor with all the force he could muster and simply bounced off. The greatsword struck the horse with impossible strength, killing it instantly. Down Ethendir went, and he came back to his feet groggily. The chaos lord eyed him. "Die," it said again, and Ethendir was afraid. They lunged at each other, and Ethendir abandoned any attempt to parry the sword. He flung himself beneath it, and with a desperate prayer to Kurnous struck out. His sword struck the edge of the lance, and drove it deeper into the body of the chaos lord. More blood wheezed out. They broke back and eyed each other again. Then the chaos lord toppled. Cheers came from the high elves, a chorus of new hope. And Ethendir staggered away slowly to find himself another horse, as the elves pressed on with new strength.  
  
Calarion stood in the middle of a pile of corpses, soaked in blood. Many were dark elves. Many were not. And the two remaining members of his bodyguard stood by him as well, in similar shape. Tarran Angedhel's armour was torn and blood ran from his leg. Alar Silverhand's right arm hung limply and he wielded his blade with his left. But the tide of the battle had changed. The dark elves were falling back, demoralized and dispirited by the death of their leader and the fall of their standard. And now the gold lightning of Tyrion tore through their ranks, and the white lightning of the mage Teclis hammered into their ranks again and again. "Onward!" Calarion cried, and his companions - the two knights and a small band of spearmen - charged onwards, crying the names of their land and their leader. One of the spearmen held the book and blade banner, and it waved proudly as the final remnants of Tarthalion's army fought onwards. Their way was paved with blood at every step, and one by one the last spearmen fell, but for every one who fell the dark elves dropped back further and further, and more of their corpses littered the ground. And it was the same everywhere. Against all the odds, the high elves were winning. Had Malekith been alive, his sheer presence would have brought the victory back to the dark elves. Had Mortharor been alive, his skilled strategies would doubtlessly have defeated the high elves. But Malekith had died in the fireball, and Calarion himself had run Mortharor through. And now, leaderless, spiritless, the dark elves were dying in their swarms. Calarion's blade led the way, with Tarran and Alar a step behind to his sides. They ran down the dark elves, as did the rest of the great army. Almost as one, the great army of dark elves finally through down their arms and fled the field. And as one, the victorious high elves swept after them, engulfing them, running them down. Few dark elves survived. Calarion's spirits were high for the first time in months, since Tarthalion's death. He had achieved the goal his father had died for, and now surely it was all over. Then a small force of dark elves appeared, the Black Guard of Naggarond. They still fought on, and they plunged in towards Calarion's banner. The small but veteran band of spears and blades fought back against the elite warriors of the Witch-King, cutting them down one by one. Calarion met their leader in the middle of the field, a vicious warrior soaked in elf blood. Their blades flashed once, and the dark elf fell, cleft in twain. Then something heavy struck the prince on the side of his head. Blood soaking his golden hair, he fell, and the world turned black as the Black Guard rushed forwards.  
  
And the slaughter was over. Tyrion looked around the expanses of Finuval Plain, the isolated valley that would be remembered forever. He could see no trace of the grass, so totally covered was it by corpses and blood. He moved as in shock. All about him, high elves moved around, looking for their friends, weeping quietly over corpses. Several bodies of heroes had been recovered, and many more heroes walked still. Tyrion chuckled. They were all heroes. Every high elf that had fought that day was a hero. And their deeds would never be forgotten. He could see several of the commanders. Over to his left he could see Ethendir, and cheers greeted his presence as the tale of his stand against the chaos lord spread. And Thaindal's corpse slumped over the back of the Ellyrian's horse, his gray hair soaked with blood. There was Ikarus, the great general, the one who had fought valiantly to get to this place, who had defeated one of Malekith's generals in hand-to- hand combat, his flame-red armour muddied and bloodied, but still proud. And there was another corpse, that of Arhaindir Moonhand. The survivors of his small force, a scant score of elves led by the archer Cedwyn Brighteye and the young she-elf Nimine Starbrow, of whom all attested to her courage when she held together Telimis the Brave's spear-wielding elves in the face of Witch Elves, spoke of Arhaindir's heroic last stand, and all agreed he was truly a great hero. Belannaer, Loremaster of Hoeth, the old elf still strong and proud amidst his swordmasters. His magic had been instrumental in holding the central lines. And there was the sword and book still flying triumphantly with ten spearmen still under it, and the two elf knights Tarran Angedhel and Alar Silverhand supporting the unconscious form of Prince Calarion. They had defended his body against the Black Guard, a foe of ruthlessness and skill, and saved their lord's life. Teclis, his brother, leant on his staff, exhausted. A true hero of the battle, for the elves were already beginning to speak of him in awed voices, comparing him to Caledor Dragon-Tamer of old. And finally his eyes came to rest on the white-robed she-elf picking her way wearily through the host of corpses, surrounded by bloodied elf maidens, supported by Naideth Morningstar, looking for him. Alarielle. He flung himself off Malhandir and sprinted towards her, a great and weary form in gold plate. She turned and saw him, and her eyes lit up. And then they were in each other's arms, lips firmly pressed together, delighting in the simple joy of each other's life. They broke off the kiss, and Tyrion turned to face the elves, still holding Alarielle around the waist. Sunfang gleamed in the now midday light as he drove it high into the air. "Ulthuan!" he cried. "Ulthuan!" And his cry was echoed by the victors of the great battle, as swords, spears, axes, bows, or fists were brandished. "Ulthuan!" they roared. "Ulthuan!" 


	28. Epilogue

The defeat of the dark elves at Finuval Plain spelt the end of the dark elven invasion. Without their leaders, and with the main force of their army destroyed, the dark elves were quickly defeated by the high elves. Led by the twins Tyrion and Teclis, and the other great heroes who would go down into legend - Calarion, Ikarus, Ethendir - the high elves pressed onward down through Saphery to Lothern. There, in a short battle, the dark elves were routed. Tyrion and Teclis were met at Lothern by two people. The first was Finubar, Phoenix King, the leader of the High Elves. The second was Alarich Schteiffenberg, an emissary from the Old World. There, too, battles waged with the ascendant forces of Chaos. After two weeks of rest and mustering in Lothern, the twins left each other. Tyrion was to lead the armies of Ulthuan to drive the last remnants of the dark elves from their shores, while Teclis volunteered to go to the Empire, to aid Magnus the Pious. Two years of constant warfare followed. Tyrion fought battle after battle, reclaiming the conquered lands pace by pace. Aided by Calarion, who he appointed his second in command, he drove the dark elves back after vicious skirmishes to Naggaroth, their chill homeland. Finally, in the dust that had been the ancient dark elven fortress of Anlec, two years after the Battle of Finuval Plain, Tyrion's forces met up with those of Finubar. The conquest of Ulthuan, which had seemed so inevitable, was now no more than a distant dream, and Ulthuan began to recover from the dreadful war. Tyrion and Alarielle returned to the rebuilt Evercourt. Tyrion soon became the Everqueen's consort and the commander of her forces, while the loyal Naideth Morningstar was rewarded by taking the position held by Elenia so long ago, Captain of the Handmaidens. The two lived together in much- deserved bliss thereafter. Teclis stayed in the Old World for many years. He aided the new Emperor, Magnus the Pious, first with his awesome commands of magic, and then by training the first of the Empire's battle-mages. He returned in 2362, twenty-five years after he had left Ulthuan, and met his brother again at their father Arathion's funeral. And Teclis remained in Ulthuan, for the feeble-minded High Loremaster Cyeos had finally died peacefully in his sleep, and nearly unanimously the Loremasters elected Teclis first a member of their circle, and then their leader. It was a great honour, and Teclis gratefully accepted. Calarion returned to his family estates, intending to live the rest of his life in peace. He never married, Ashainnarya permanently on his mind. He stayed there in solitude, coming briefly back out of retirement during the Goblin invasion of Yvresse, but returned to his estate at the end of the final battle. He would stay there until the year 2510, when events would bring him out of retirement permanently. Ikarus also returned home after the defeat of the dark elves. He returned to Caledor a great hero, and increased in power and prestige significantly. He stayed with his Felix Legion, though, despite frequent offers of higher positions in the Caledorian army. And contrary to belief, Malekith did not die when the fireball struck his chariot. He narrowly escaped into the Realm of Chaos. It took him many years to return to Naggaroth and to heal, but when he did his hatred of the enemies was only increased tenfold, and he vowed that when the next battle came, his enemies would be vanquished finally. He began plotting the next invasion of Ulthuan, backed by deadly knowledge. For in Heart of the Tower had been ruined, and its magic warped. And one day, Malekith vowed, he would unleash the essence of Khaine that it now held. 


End file.
